.0^ .•VL'^ <> V *'* 









<^ -OHO- ^' ^ •" ^^ 

f' ^ A^ ^lL^*^> V" •I.'.f' «;i<. A^ .♦W 

^-,* "^jv AT ^^raa^* *^ «. *^^^*• *r>. AT *irf?^ 

/h." '^ t^ ♦ CiiiK^i * ^4* A^ * rf^ S» /)l. "^rk W^ * y\j|| 



nV . O « • ^ »q 






• A^ ^C<» o 



.4,^^v -.1 














<\ V • • • , ▼ ' 















MY 



in^THER'S KISTELL: 



onns, 



IN M E M O R Y O b' 



3. @.. 



WHO WAS DROWXED NEAR GLOUCE'^TER, MASS., AUGUST 16th, 1850, 
AGED LIII. 



^rintcL> for |.ln(3:ite pistrlbutiaiT 




NEW YORK : 

FEINTED BY EDWARD 0. JENKINS, 
2 6 Frankfort Street. 

18 5 6. 






Entereil iiiTonHng !•> Ai-t of CuiiEress, in the year 1856, by 

A. MASON, y 



/( V- 



la the Clerk's Office of the Dietiiot CoiMToTTlie United Slates, for the Southern 
District ot New York. 



CONTENTS 



PREFACE, . . . . . . . . 6 

ON BEADING TENNYSON'S "IN MEMOEIAM," . . d 

1. HOME. AS IT WAS, 12 

II. HOME AS IT IS, 15 

III. HOME AS IT WILL BE, 18 

IV. TEARS, - . 21 

V. ARISE, MY LOVE, MY FAIR ONE, AND COME AWAY, . 23 

VI. MY FATHER'S BOOK 26 

VIL YEARNINGS, 8) 

VIII. THE SEALED FOUNTAIN, 34 

IX. FRIENDS IN HEAVEN .87 

X. WEAKNESS' 4) 

XI. ACQUIESCENCE, 41 

XII. THE APPROACH OP DEATH, .... 42 

XIII. A SABBATH EVENING, 45 

XIV. " WEEP NOT, FOE THE LION OF THE TRIBE OP JUDAH 

HATH PREVAILED," 48 

XV. '• I WENT OUT FULL, AND THE LORD HATH BROUGHT 

ME HOME EMPTY," 52 

XVI. WEARINESS, 55 

XVII. THE FAVORITE PSALM, 58 

XVIII. THIRTY-SEVENTH PSALM, 60 

XIX. DOUBTLESS HE IS AT REST, . . . . .62 

XX. THE PARTING YEAR, 65 

XXI. DEPARTURE, ........ 68 

XXIL ST. JOHN'S PARK 71 

XXIII. CLOUDS 74 



PAGE 

XXIV. MESSAGES TO THE DEAD, 7T 

XXV. CHEERFULNESS, 80 

XXVI. THE WISH, 83 

XXVII. "SUDDEN DEATH SUDDEN GLORY," . . 85 

XXVIII. A FEW MORE YEARS FROM HEAVEN, . . 8T 

XXIX. WHY SHOULD WE KEEP HIM? ... 89 

XXX. OLD LETTERS, 91 

XXXI. THE FIRM FOOT, 94 

XXXIL I WOULD NOT BE WITHOUT THIS GRAVE, . . 96 

XXXIII. YOUTH HAS FLED, , . 99 

XXXIV. THE WALDENSIAN PASTOR, .... 1<)2 
XXXV. SYMPATHY, lOT 

XXXVL THE RECALL, 1C9 

XXXVII. "LET NOT HIM THAT GIRDEfH ON THE HARNESS 
BOAST HIMSELF AS HE THAT PUTTETH IT 

OFF," 112 

XXXVIII. FROM JAFFA TO JERUSALEM, .... 115 

XXXIX. THE THREE PICTURES, 118 

XL. A SKETCH 12) 

XLL THE WHITE STONE, 123 

XLII. THE QUEST FOR THE SPIRIT, ... 125 
XLin. MY MOTHER'S SONG, . . . ... .128 

XLIV. THE SICK ROOM 13J 

XLV. THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS, .... 133 

XLVI. THE TRIUMPH OF CHRIST'S CAUSE, . . 186 

XLVIL MOONLIGHT ON THE SEA-SHORE, . . . 139 

XL VIII. FAMILY PRAYER, ...... 142 

XLIX. MY TWO DREAMS, 144 

L. THANKSGIVING, 150 

LI. THE BIRD, 1S2 

LII. MOURNER'S LITANY, . . . . • 156 

LIII. RESURGAM, 159 

L'BNVOI, 161 

NOTES, 163 



P K E F A C! £„ 

Few words are needed by way of preface to a volume 
not meant for general use, printed merely to avoid re- 
peated transcriptions, and read, for the most part, by 
those bound either to subject or writer, in ties of family 
affection or long friendship. 

Yet as two or three passages, considered separately, 
may seem to breathe a degree of sadness inconsistent 
with Christian hope, it may not be amiss to mention 
that this is by no means their design. They do but 
attempt to express, in turn, some of the darker phases 
of feeling incident to a real sorrow. 

Such feelings of course differ, according to the tem- 
peraments of different sufferers, and the scenes around 
them. Over some heads the shadow of affliction passes 
with comparative speed,- — their life-tempests, though 
heavy for a ,time, soon cease, leaving behind them an 
air all the purer, a sunshine all the more brilliant, for 
the brief darkness. But in other cases they are more 
like that which befell St. Paul on his way to Italy, 
" when neither sun nor stars in many days appeared," 



6 



and escape from sliipwreck proved but the forerunner 
of wearisome captivity. The cloud may, now and then, 
divide and yield g-limpses of the serene brightness 
bej'ond it ; yet, when these are over, Heaven seems 
again absent — sorrow is present — and the heart sinks. 

For this state there is but one cure— "looking unto 
Jesus." The exulting songs of a faith less tried or more 
triumphant, may fall on the sad spirit like trumpet-notes 
of cheer upon the heart of a wounded soldier left alone 
by the way-side. Inspiriting to others, they only deepen 
the anguish of one who cannot arise and answer their 
call. But the thought that He who sends trial was 
Himself " acquainted with grief," can change murmuring 
into submission, and induce a willingness to follow that 
Saviour with patience, if not with rejoicing, to the end, 

Since he— so tenderly loved, so truly mourned — in 
memory of whom these verses- are written, was taken 
away, how many of his associates and kinsfolk have fol- 
lowed ! Scarcely will this little book find its way into 
a single household " where there is not one dead ;" and 
doubtless this very fact will do much toward winning 
for it a welcome. 

To his surviving friends and kindred it is now offered 
in affectionate trust, as a memorial of the departed. 

New Yokk, May 5, 1856. 



I* O E M S. 



ON READING- TENNYSON'!^ ''IN MEMORIAM." 



FAIR memorial ! thou wert planned 

In poet-vision, purged by tears; 

And thou wert piled through lingering vears 
Of love and grief, with tireless hand. 

For Love alone so rich a store 

Of thoughts like jewels, ever brought 
From secret mines, in stillness wrought, 

No Grrief less faithful might explore. 

And lavished now, as treasure spent 

On saintly tombs, they serve to show 
His wealth of heart who sleeps below, 

And his, who reared the monument. 
1 



10 



For while we read, the rainbow light 
From stained oriel seems to fall 
Aslant on snowy marble pall, 

With chisell'd broidery bedight ; 



And marble mourners, carved with care, 
In motionless attendance kneel. 
As though their vigil could reveal 

How he was loved whose dust is there. 



My own dear Father, could my sighs 

Embalm thy name in deathless song,- 
Or could my tears, by process long, 

Thus into splendors crystallize, — 



Then with what gladness v^^ould 1 raise 
By patient toil, as pure a shrine, 
And from oblivion worth like thine 

There shelter for a few brief days ! 

Alas, I cannot even tell 

How funeral wreaths may best be twined, 
Or in thy chaplet blossoms bind. 

Of amaranth and asphodel : 



ii 



Yet as through village laues, a sound 
Regretful sweeps from passing bell, 
Numbering the years with solemn knell, 

Of one in cerements newly wound ; 

So the deep love within my soul 
In long vibration still intones 
Our loss afresh, and daily moans 

Thy death, with melancholy toll. 

We will not rear some costly stone 

To publish how our dear one died, 
Nor suffer idle tongues to chide 

His requiem's plaintive monotone : 

Ah no ! let reverent footsteps tread 
Beside the turf where violets be. 
And only eyes which loved him see 

The words that mourn our holy dead. 



12 



HOME AS IT WAS. 

We had a home, a happy home, a home that never 
changed, 

Though site and casing varied oft, and far its mem- 
bers ranged ; 

A spirit-tent, with magic folds, to curtain us around. 

Repelling every evil thing from their enchanted 
bound. 

It stood within a city's walls, and yet in bustling 

mart. 
The hum of business could not drown the music of 

the heart ; 
It crossed the seething ocean, and rough gales in fury 

blew. 
But failed to rive one bulwark of a love so firm and 

true. 



13 



'Twas then a simple cabin, o'erhung by locast 
trees, 

Where fragrant blossomings allured the humming- 
birds and bees. 

And the bright-crested rover, as he bent to kiss the 
flowers. 

Seemed like happiness alighting on that quiet home 
of ours. 



Next from its roofing gazed we forth upon a noble 

bay, 
There argosies from every clime in floating phalanx 

lay; 
But oh I how trifling looked the gauds of luxury and 

pride. 
To us whose chosen place of rest was by each other's 

side. 



We had no need of alien mirth to make our house- 
hold gay, 

For a glad atmosphere of peace encircled it alway ; 

And faith grev/ stronger when, at times, affliction's 
gentle rain 

Brushed from its drooping leaves the dust, and bade 
it bloom again. 



14 



We had been told that bliss was brief, we knew life's 
brittle thread 

Could easily be severed, and all its pearls be shed ; 

But still we hoped our own bright home for many a 
year might stay, 

Ere from the precious belt of love dropped one fami- 
liar ray. 

The callow birdling tranquil lies, yet unaware how 

blest, 
Nor sees the tempest gathering to hurl away its nest ; 
For downy is the fragile couch, the parent wings are 

warm. 
And it has not learned to tremble at vague omens of 

a storm. 

Ho lived we in our happy home, until Death's shadow 

fell 
Across the threshold suddenly, and overcame the 

spell. 
Rent for awhile our charmed roof of shelter from the 

blast. 
And left us but a rifled home, whence light and joy 

had past. 



15 



11. 



HOME AS IT IS. 

A STILL, secluded spot 

Where man intrudeth not, 
Though close along the beaten way it lies ; 

The terraces are green, 

And cedar-branches screen, 
Those modest tenements that round it rise : 
And there the sun's rays pause at eve, 
As dear friends linger ere they take their leave. 

Unto the postern low, 

I often, often go, 
And could " continual coming" entrance win, 

Long since mine eager will 

Had gained the wished-for skill 
To put aside the bolts, and pass within, 
And now my vexed soul might share 
The peace inherited by dwellers there. 



16 



Alas ! that fierce assault 

Is in itself a fault, 
And proves that 1 the meet credentials lack, 

All passionless and calm, 

Each breast and folded palm, 
At whose approach the rigid doors fly back, 
And leave the path unchallenged, free, 
Welcoming them, though pitiless to me. 

I linger there in Spring, 

And hear the wild birds sing 
In the blue dome, above the cedars flying ; 

For in my heart their lay 

Tells of a sunnier day 
When, to ray mute advance at length replying, 
Those long-locked portals will unclose, 
And I shall taste an unimpaired repose. 

And when the autumnal breeze 

Sighs through the rustling trees, 
Clothed in the raiment of their bright decay, 

(Like the resplendent dress 

Some youthful votaress 
Wears when she turns her from the world away. 
Her gorgeous robes and crown of pride, 
Soon for white coif and vesture flung aside.) 



17 



Then wistfully 1 wait 

For hours bet'ore the gate, 
In fruitless watching for some furtive sign ; 

The Warders dare not swerve, 

And iu austere reserve, 
Meet with their silence every plea of mine ; 
No force is needed to withstand 
The feeble efforts of my feeble hand. 

Impatient heart, be still ! 

One day the grating will 
Repulse no longer, though thou cease to pray ; 

Encloistered thou must hide 

Thy buried ones beside, 
And then thou wilt forget the flinty way, 
Where thy unwilling feet now roam, 
Far from the precincts of thy peaceful home. 



1* 



18 



III. 



HOME AS IT WILL BE. 

Home as it will be ! the vision rises 

In perfect loveliness, refulgent, pure, 
As sudden moonlight joyfully surprises 

One lost at nightfall on a pathless moor! 

Home as it will be ! Would the veil were lifted, 
Shrouding its pinnacles in golden haze ; 

And would some fragments of its wealth were drifted 
O'er the dim channel mocking our sad gaze. 

*One who in spirit saw our home, narrated 
His rapt remembrances, in tones that seem 

With the full harmonies of Heaven dilated, 

Caught from the "harpers harping" in his dream. 

* Rev. ch. 1 : 10 and chaps. 21 and 22. 



19 



Transparent streams, through greenest meadows 
flowing, 

And odorous incense, wafted on the air, 
And trees of life, tlieir mellow fruits bestowing 

On holy beings, walking white-robed there ; 

Seas in their smoothness, like a crystal flooring. 
Half tesselate with clouds of ruby glow ; 

And emerald rays, that fall on saints adoring, 
A shadowy limning of its beauty show. 

For glorious were the far-off scenes unfolded 

Before the loved disciple's eagle ken, 
And glorious was the form wherein he moulded 

Their blissful memory for his fellow-men. 

But from another's lips* the tidings issue 

In simpler phrase, yet with deep meaning fraught, 

Craving the aid of no imperial tissue 
To robe its inborn majesty of thought. 

The flaming barrier for his way was levelled, 
And palms of Paradise around him waved. 

His tranced ear in her rich music revelled. 

While her weird lessons on his heart were graved. 

* 2 Cor. xii. 1-4 ; Phil. i. 23. 



m 



20 



But mortal tongue such secrets may not utter, 
And in the strife both speech and symbol fail, 

His bravest words in brief aspirings flutter, 

Then with bowed pinions from the splendors quail 

And yet that Silence, in its dove-like brooding, 
Bears to Faith's ear a message, sweet and clear. 

As if an Eden-gale, the guard eluding. 

Came whispering, " It is better there than here." 

Home as it will be ! From our side receding. 
Beneath its lintel kindred feet have trod. 

They wait us there, and we, 'mid briars impeding. 
Still hasten onwards to our home with G-od. 

Home as it will be ! 0, when re-united, 

That untold " weight of glory," we shall share. 

The house of praise, by Grod's own presence lighted, 
May well outshine the earthly house of prayer ! 



1 



21 



IV. 

TEARS. 

Oh do not say my father see.* 
Each heart- wrung tear I shed ! 

To deem him near me could not ease 
My sorrow for the dead. 

1 would not have him read the sign 

Of straggle with despair 
Upon a face whose every line 

He used to think so fair. 

I would not have him hear the cries 

I cannot yet control, 
Nor ripple with my dreary sighs 

The quiet of his soul. 



22 



I would not have him watch my t(;ars — 
Tears that would quickly cease, 

Might his calm voice but chide my fears, 
And soothe me into peace. 

And do not say " So great his gain, 

His affluence of joy, 
Even the knowledge of thy pain 

Would bring it no alloy." 

Can I believe he loves me less? 

My smiles could always raise 
Smiles of responsive tenderness, 

In the old happy days. 

And if a shade of saddening thought 

Upon my features fell, 
How eagerly his fondness sought 

To share it, or dispel. 

Tears were unlovely in his sight 

While he remained below ; 
Why should they trench on Heaven's delight? 

I would not have him know. 



23 



ARISE MY LOVE, MY FAIR ONE, AND 
COME AWAY. 

Was it the voice of a turtle-dove, 

Her truant mate pursuing, 
Filling the vs^elkin with notes of love. 

And his presence meekly w^ooing? 
" Spring-time is coming in copse and glade, 
" And rills are singing, and nests are made ; 
" Groodly the smell of the vine's young spray, 
" Haste, my beloved, come away ! 

Was it the murmur of southern breeze, 

To a convalescent sighing 
Of far savannahs 'mid foreign seas 

That in bloom and warmth are lying? 



24 



" Come from this region of snow and mist, 
" To an isle by unfailing sunlight kiss'd, 
" There the soft Zephyrs in spice-groves play, 
" Rise, thou pale one, come away !" 

Was it the cry of a nation's wrong, 

In its simultaneous waking, 
When the feudal harness strained so long, 
As a worn-out withe is breaking ? 
" Wilt thou follow forever a tyrant's beck, 
"And bow at his bidding thy vassal-neck ? 
" Tarn not aside from the righteous fray, 
" Thy country claims thee, come away !" 

Was it a clarion's sudden sound, 

On the hush of midnight pealing. 
Bearing this message — " The foe is found, 

" And his men on our flank are stealing ! 
"Yonder their files through the brushwood creep, 
" Soon on the column our fire shall leap, 
" Never a laggard may linger to-day, 
" Hark to the onset ! come away !" 

Was it some angel's dulcet song. 

Through a darkened chamber thrilling. 

And on the dying a foretaste strong. 
Of the bliss of Heaven distilling ? 



25 



" Fain would we bear thee, in bright convoy, 

" Up to a realm of unfading joy, 

" Life hath no beauty to lure thy stay, 

" Arise, fair one, come away !" 

Nay, dearest father, none of these 

Upon thy heart was pressing ; 
Nor ring-dove's moan, nor scented breeze 

Thy cheek and brow caressing, 
Nor tocsin's clang, nor trumpet clear, 
Had power to win thy willing ear ; 
Nor do I think an angel's lay 
Could woo thee from thy child away. 

One voice, one " still small voice" alone, 

O'er all thy wishes swaying. 
In loving, but resistless tone. 

Could charm thee to obeying. 
The Saviour spake : thy soul was stirred 
At his low call, by us unheard ; 
That summons might not brook delay, 
And our beloved went away. 



il 



26 



VI. 

MY FATHER'S BOOK. 



Written after his departure in a little volume of manuscript Poems, (so ciillcd,} 
which belono'ed to him. 



Ah poor, neglected book I 

How hard it is to look 
Again on thy once over-cherished leaves ; 

They rouse afresh the sense 

Of loss and grief intense, 
Now brooding ever o'er our household eaves. 

My Father^s book no more, 
. The dear delight is o'er. 
To soothe and cheer hiin with thine artless lays, 

It is no joy to read. 

He cannot hear or heed, — 
And every line seems harsh without his praise. 



27 



Why, when his fingers last 

Along thy pale leaves pass'd, 
Did'st thou not warn him of that fearful day, 

And mournfully unroll 

Some sad Sibylline scroll, 
To presage sorrow, and to bid him stay ? 

It is a bitter woe, 

When love can never know 
The latest utterance of departing life : 

could'st thou but reveal, 

(Breaking the grave's thick seal,) 
What thoughts thronged on him in that lonely strife! 

Vain wishes — bootless now I 

None, none may tell me how 
His placid spirit left its earthly tent : 

Of sky, and land, and sea, 

T question wearily, 
But answer to my cry is never sent. 

The songs recorded here 

Were full of buoyant cheer. 
Drawn from the springs of love and hope within ; 

But now my darkened heart 

Has lost its mirthful art. 
And only breathes out murmurs, moans, and sin. 



28 



little heeds the wren, 

Far down in peaceful glen, 
How loftily the eagle's flight may soar ! 

And voice of lilied brook, 

Laving some verdurous nook, 
Seeks noi to emulate the ocean's roar. 

The streams of nobler song 

Might rush in strength along — 
Bearing, like waifs, men's plaudits on their tide; 

'Twas joy enough for him 

To hear my simple hymn 
Sung in the twilight by our own fireside. 

Never — ah never more ! 

Till life's long grief be o'er, 
Will those dear eyes in fond approval shine ; 

Nor that indulgent ear 

Again be bent to hear 
With partial praises each new lay of mine. 

Yet, selfish heart and weak ! 

Though life to thee look bleak, 
Why should his blessedness involve thy woe? 

Because in light he walketh, 

And with his Saviour talketh. 
Our home is silent, and our footfall slow. 



29 



And seraph-voices dear, 
Ring on his quickened ear, 

For home's old melodies he doth not pine. 
Most beautiful exchange I 
Why should I call it strange, 

If in their songs he have forgotten mine ? 



30 






VIT. 

YEARNINGS. 

Cold in death the frame now lieth, 

Dark and silent is its grave, 
Scarce the Holy Book supplieth 

Knowledge my weak heart will crave ; 
Prone to falter 
When God's Altar 
Claims the thing that most we prize, 
As a willing sacrifice. 

for a celestial missive ! 

Dated in some bower of light, 
Not with brightness too oppressive, 

Baffling the bewildered sight. 



;-!! 



liufc in living, 

Langaagcj giving 
Out linens of that Sabbath shore 
Wliich the lansomed quit no more. 

Though I r(;ad that Heaven is better 

Than the holiest scenes below, 
Free fr<jin sin and snare and fetter, 
I'^till my spirit pants to know 
If no yearning, 
No fond turning 
Ever draws the enfranchised mind 
Toward the loving left behind. 

When a transient beam of gladness, 

(Brief, alas, as once my tears,) 
Flits, unsummoned, o'er my sadness, 
With a smile of happier years ; 
Oh, my treasure I 
Once thy pleasure 
Was to share and witness mine — 
Is that joy no longer thine ? 

When the fangs of anguish keenly 
Fasten on my orphan soul, 

Canst thou sit in bliss serenely. 
Heedless of my bitter dole ? 



32 

Will my sobbing 

Wake no throbbing 
In the heart that used to thrill 
At my lightest fear of ill ? 

Oh, I would not cloud thy joyance 

With the vision of my woe I 
Nor obtrude earth's dull annoyance 
On thy mansion's stainless glow. 
For that dwelling, 
Far excelling 
All we count most lovely here, 
Harbors not one rebel tear. 

Yet, beloved, winds one query. 

Thread-like, through my mazed brain ; 
When, of lengthened warfare weary, 
I apjjroach the place of gain, 
Wilt thou meet me, 
G-ently greet me 
With the look and lip of yore ? 
Hail me thine for evermore ? 

Or will years of Heaven's refining 
Purge all earlier loves away. 

Till thy spirit, star-like shining. 
Cares not for my slender ray ? 



83 



Have the sages 

Of past ages 
Led thee to such glorious lore, 
That thou needest me no more ? 

I may ask — but oh, how meagre 

Is the answer to my call ! 
Ceaseless though my questions eager 
On the Silence round me fall, 
Their vain urgings 
Break, like surgings 
Of the fierce but sand-curbed wave, 
On the impenetrable grave. 



34 



VIII. 

THE SEALED FOUNTAIN. 

Not as a cistern, desolate and shattered, 

That mocks the asking eye, 
Whence rural toilers long ago have scattered 

In search of pools less dry ; 
With ruined walls which cannot hold 
The draught so freely given of old ; 

Though 'neath the mosses on its rim half-broken. 

May be deciphered still 
Some pilgrim's praise, or carvings that betoken 

How many quaffed at will ; 
Not thus shall now my memory dwell 
Upon thy love's exhaustless well. 



85 



For while beside our pleasant home it waited, 

Thence, with delight each day 
I gained new cordials for my thirst unsated. 

Until the shining spray 
Seemed, in its pure perennial flow, 
My antidote for every woe I 

That fount of gladness now hath ceased to mingle 

Its song with this world's din ; 
Music and mirth have left our household ingle, 

And Sorrow sits therein ; 
Thy love no more our home may shield, 
" A spring shut up, a fountain sealed." 

'Tis like the treasure of sweet water hidden 

Down in a desert well ; 
The coping moves not by its Chief unbidden,' 

The way-marks none can tell ; 
For touch or cry it will not yield, 
"A spring shut up, a fountain sealed." 

And as an Arab, 'mid the sand-heaps parching. 

Hastens his weary steed, 
While his keen glances eagerly are searching 

Some pool where he may speed, 
And pining for the store concealed 
Tn the shut spring, the " fountain sealed." 



36 



So through this world iny spirit vainly turneth 

Of thy lost love in quest ; 
The dreary w^aste, the stone-closed cell discerneth, 

But not the hidden guest. . 

Thy life, thy love are unrevealed, 

" A spring shut up, a fountain sealed." 

There is another Fount, whose waters gliding, 

Sparkle less gaily by, 
Yet their deep sources, undisturbed abiding. 

In the Myrrh-Mountains lie, 
And passing thence, more virtue wield, 
Than springs shut up, and fountains sealed. 

that my heart, Siloa's strength receiving, 

Could all its sweetness know ! 
But the leer channel evermore is grieving, 

Those waters " softly go ;" 
And the riven banks must wail unhealed 
Their " spring shut up," their " fountain sealed," 

Till the long season of seclusion ended, 

The stone be rolled away, 
And the clear waves, with kindred waters blended. 

Arise, in loftier play. 
To prove no more, in Heaven's broad field, 
"A spring shut up, a fountain sealed !" 



37 



IX. 

FRIENDS IN HEAVEN. 

" Blessed as it is to have friends on earth, it is slill more blessed to have friends 
in Heaven." 

Guesses at Truth. 

Is it a pleasant thing to listen 
When infants laugh, — to see 
How guileless are the eyes that glisten 
With such unfearing glee : 

While yet their fancies fleet 

Are fair as new-fallen snow, 
Before defiling feet 

Have trampled to and fro ? 
Aye ; but in Heaven that trustful glance 
Is never dimmed by Time's advance. 

Is there a blessedness in knowing 

That one beloved heart 
On us its wealth of love bestowing, 

Forms of our being part ; 



38 



In days of sunny light, 

Life unto rapture wedding, 
And on the gloomiest night 

Its own sweet lustre shedding? 
Aye ! but in Heaven the chilling dread, 
Lest death divide, itself is dead. 

Is there a happiness in deeming 

Forever, by our side, 
Through busy toil, and quiet dreaming, 
Attendant angels glide, 

While from aerial foes. 

And perils unforeseen, 
They hourly interpose 

Our feeble faith to screen ? 
Aye ! but in Heaven no shadow hides 
The service of our mystic guides. 

Is there a higher bliss in gaining 

Assurance of His love. 
Who, once our weight of sin sustaining. 
Now sits enthroned above ; 

While, through the lattice-folds, 

Some golden glimpses shine, 
Of joys the palace holds. 
Ineffable, divine ? 



39 



Aye ! but in Heaven what bliss to share 
Christ's life, and see His beauty there ! 

And he whose form so lately vanished 

From our forsaken home, 
Into far exile is not banished, 
In deserts need not roam ; 

But hailed by gladsome throngs 

Of wise and holy friends. 
He learns their joyful songs, 
And in their worship bends, 
"Where not a tinge of earth's sad leaven 
Spoils the beatitude of Heaven. 

Ah ! from no trivial word a jarring, 

In mirkiness may rise, 
The fuU-orb'd light of friendship marring, 
When friends are in the skies : 
For all things good and true 

Their purity retain. 
And strength and splendor new 
In long progression gain. 
Time cannot change, nor distance sever. 
The friends of Heaven are friends forever ' 



40 



X. 

WEAKNESS. 

My Father ! thou wert ever strong and firm ; 

A stalwart helper, towering at my side, 
Seeking for aye to nurse in me the germ 

Of patient trust, that like thee I might bide 

Unruffled, amid sorrow's roughest tide: 
Thou would'st not know me now, when, as a worm 

Writhing in helplessness, and fiercely tried, 
I have not strength to struggle through the term 

Of my allotted anguish. I could bear 

Much outward grief unmoved while thou wert 
here, 
And in departing, had thy saintly boon= 

Been the brave cloak of courage thou didst wear, 
The beggar had not sunk bemired so soon. 
Mourning life's sunshine overcast ere noon. 



41 



XI. 

ACQUIESCENCE. 

If thou wert ripe for Heaven, should Christ delay- 
To gather for Himself the sun-bathed fruit, 

And save its precious clusters from decay, 

Because our frailty craved thy longer stay, 
And our w^an tendrils, that in sickly shoot 

Obscured thy beauty, must be rent away ? 
His larger plans our purposes uproot ; 
His wisdom may not with our wishes suit. 

Why was our day of happiness so fleet ? 
Because the glad, soul-animating glow 

Of thy bright presence made it too complete. 
Ah ! vainly do we look for rest below : 
Here we must suffer — God hath willed it so — 

And what He wills, dare we pronounce unmeet ? 



42 



XII. 
THE APPROACH OF DEATH. 

Words and looks of placid sweetness, 

When the close of life drew nigh, 
Witnessed to thy growing raeetness 

For a land whence tumults fly. 
Had some leaf or bourgeon, floated 

From the continent of peace, 
To thy tossing heart denoted, 

Haven near and swift release ? 



Were there angels o'er thee leaning ? 

By soft touch and winsome tone. 
From our weak enthralments weaning 

One demanded for a throne ? 



43 



Was a chrism of costly ointment 

Poured upon thy regal head ? 
Heralding its high appointment, 

Through the fragrance thence far-spread. 

Didst thou fare as royal maiden 

Meeting, ere her marriage morn, 
Messengers with presents laden, 

Proving she is not forlorn, 
But the home for which she grieveth, 

Though it charmed her childish view, 
And the friends and love she leaveth 

Are not equal to the new ? 

Passing to a realm of order, 

Quitting one of rude turmoil. 
As thy foot approached the border. 

All the retinue of Toil, 
Whose surveillance long oppressed thee, 

Breathed at once a last farewell, 
Seeing robes of light invest thee. 

And their sheen adorn thee well. 

I have heard of ancient vases, ^ 

Wrought in frail, mysterious ware. 

That unfilled, to him who gazes 
Seem as lilies, chastely fair ; 



44 



Till, with genial vintage flushing, ^aai 

Blossoms, grouped in rare design, ^H 

Through the porcelain are blushing, 
Startled into life by wine. 

Thus, unseen, from Eden's portal. 

Silent cherubs near thee stole. 
And with wine of life immortal, 

Filled the beaker of thy soul ; 
Rising then to far-off palace 

From our sight the vase they bore, 
There, a consecrated chalice, 

To be treasured evermore. 

While they yet delayed their going 

For a moment — through the side 
Flowers of matchless hue came glowing, 

To our daily ken denied : 
Dimly and but half apparent. 

Saw we first the tracing shine — 
Then the opal grew transparent. 

And the painting proved divine ! 



45 



xiir. 

A SABBATH EVENING. 

August 11th, 1850. 

The Sun died slowly, pillowed on the Sea — 
Then cloudy factions for his sceptre strove, 

And bore their banners far 

Along the western heaven. 

The cairn cerulean, and the passive main 
Each rival color unremonstrant wore, 

As rose-tints crimson grew, 

And crimson, tawny gold ; 

Till the Sun's heir, victorious Amber, waved 
His bright Labarum over sky and sea ; 
G-azing meanwhile, we viewed 
Their struggles from the shore. 



46 



Colossal boulders on our path looked down, 
And answering headlands purpled in the sky, 

And stillness, like a robe 

Of peace, around us lay. 

The gilded waves ebbed quietly away 

With scarce a murmur. From celestial towers 

A golden draw-bridge seemed 

To droop, that summer eve. 

Then softly was the Sabbath silence stirred 
By Sabbath anthems, till we longed " to sit 

" And sing ourselves away, 

" To everlasting bliss." 



And then we bade dark " unbelief begone," 
In timid trust no evil could befall 
A bark where Jesus sate, 
And Christians "smiled at storms." 



Oh, tuneful strains I no prescience warned us then, 
Ye were but preludes to a piteous dirge — 

But swan-songs of delight. 

Thenceforth to sound no more. 



47 



Oh lovely sunset ! when thy dyes were gone, 
We saw not how a triple night enclosed 

The day — his precious life — 

And all our earthly joy. 

The twilight of another Sabbath came : 
Its shadows lingered on a new-made grave, 

And on two bleeding hearts. 

Alone with their ijreat woe. 



^ 



48 



XIV. 



"WEEP NOT, FOR THE LION OF THE TRIBE 
OF JUDAH HATH PREVAILED." 



This text was the subject of some remarks at one of the last communion seasons 
attended by my father, which comforted hinri greatly, and were often referred to 
with delight. 



STRONG is Judah's Lion, 
And firm His stately tread ! 

And while He guardeth Zion, 
What danger can we dread ? 



Though weak our best resources, 

And poor the front we form, 
When proud, malignant forces 

Arise, our camp to storm — 



49 



And though in baleful splendor, 

Their burnished armor shines, 
The breath of our Defender 
Shall blast the serried lines ! 

For strong is Judah's Lion, 

And firm His stately tread. 
And while He guardeth Zion, 
What danger can we dread ? 

Around the world's gay standard, 

A host of vassals group ; 
She to their pride hath pandered, 

And at her call they troop. 
Long, long in fascination 

Owned we that servile yoke, 
Till the Strength of our Salvation 
Through chain and philtre broke. 
For strong is Judah's Lion, 

And firm His stately tread ! 
And while He guardeth Zion, 
What danger can we dread ? 

Forth from yon lurid banner, 
There streams unearthly light. 

While, in remorseless manner, 
The demon-armies fight. 



50 



Like waves in fury swelling 

They rise, and rend, and roar, 

But a Voiee, the tumult quelling, 

Shall bid them rage no more. 

For strong is Judah's Lion, 

And firm His stately tread. 
And while He guardeth Zion, 
What danger can we dread ? 

There is deadlier mischief lurking 

Within the leaguered wall, 
And traitor hands are working 

In secret, for its fall — 
Yet is the subtle scheming. 

Scanned by Unslumbering Eyes — 
With fire eternal beaming — 
They never knew sur(Drise. 

For strong is Judah's Lion, 

And firm His stately tread ! 
And while He guardeth Zion, 
What danger can we dread? 



Yea, through Death's valley taking 

Our solitary walk. 
Where sins of past years, waking, 

With vengeful menace stalk — 



51 



Still, still no evil fearing, 

Shall we not press along 
Its far recesses cheering 
With the familiar song? 

strong is Judah's Lion, 

And firm His stately tread I 
And while He guardeth Zion, 
What danger can we dread ? 



52 



XV. 



"I WENT OUT FULL, AND THE LORD HATH 
BROUGHT ME HOME EMPTY ." 

We went out full of peace, 

Of union, love, and hope — 
The daylight did not see 
Aught happier than we 

Beneath heaven's cope. 

Not ours the peace of stones,'* 

Buried in brooklet's bed,' 
Deaf to its song-like flow, 
Heedless how wildly blow 

Storms overhead. 



b6 



But the quiet of the arch, 

Where, hewn and laid with art, 
Each stone, as mason wills, 
In calm obedience fills 

Its humble part. 



The union of the cord 

In threefold strength encased, 
And able to resist 
Hands harmful to the twist 

Thus interlaced. 



The love that sweetens life, 

As in some ferny dell, 
A breath of perfume rare 
Gives witching notice where 
Blue violets dwell. 



The hope of autumn skies 

Whence morning mists have fled- 
Although the sunshine goes. 
Fair tints will o'er its close 

A glory spread. 



54 

This was our " time of wealth"- 

And oh, how brief its stay ! 
How speedily the stoop 
Of Death, in falcon-swoop 
Bore all away ! 



Then from our lowly arch 

The crowning keystone fell — 
Loosed was the triple strand — 
Stripped by marauding hand 
The violet's dell. 



And in the changing sky, 

A sheath of leaden clouds 
Sends o'er the sylvan view 
Its own portentous hue, 
And hope enshrouds. 



Back to the empty house 

With emptier heart we come- 
Our only solace stored 
In this one truth — The Lord 
Hath brought us home. 



oo 



XVI. 

WEARINESS. 

Suggested by reading an account of one of the Arctic Expeditions. 

" My soul is weary of my life" — 

The life that glided once along, 
Through quiet scenes with beauty rife, 

Like a bright pinnace, swift and strong. 
Now, bright no more, the keel is pent 

As in a silent Arctic sea. 
And storms, with merciless intent, 

Are howling round her drearily. 

Oh where are now the gladdening beams 
Which used to whiten all her sails 

When they were borne o'er glassy streams, 
And swayed by none but favoring gales ? 



56 



It is so long since daylight fell 
Upon this frozen, trackless wild, 

That my dim eyes can hardly tell 

How sunshine looked, or summer smiled. 

And where are now the blithesome strains 

By song-birds warbled from the shore ? 
Not one enlivening note remains — 

I only shudder at the roar 
Of icebergs as they clash and grind, 

And shriek and struggle in. their lair. 
Lest soon our vessel shipwreck find 

'Midst the grim horrors couchant there. 

Once, too, there was a graceful bark. 

My loved companion and my guide. 
That stems no more these waters dark — 

Her sails unfurl, her pennons ride, 
Where helm and canvas need not own 

The force of one unwelcome breeze. 
While I am left to brave alone 

The perils found in Polar seas. 

And hour by hour, in fear and wrath, 
I watch you iceberg's horrent frown. 

Now threatening on our winter-path, 
To send destruction crushing down. 



o^ 



The cold, immense, vibrating mass, 
Seeins a vast pendulum of woe : 

And in its shade, my moments pass, 
Each like a flake of wandering snow. 

" My soul is weary of my life, 

I speak in bitterness of soul :" 
Amid these gusts of sin and strife, 

I cannot see Heaven's shining goal. 
The flowers that blossom there are sweet, 

And founts of glory near them play — 
But numb and nerveless are my feet, 

And Heaven is very far away ! 



58 



XVII. 

THE FAVORITE PSALM. 

When a heavy weight of care, 
That I know not how to bear, 

On my spirit lies — 
When the thoughts of past delight, 
On my present dawnless night, 
Like sad spectres rise ; 

Then I long to feel the charm 
Of my father's favorite psalm. 

Might his accents, low and sweet. 
Each consoling line repeat. 

Soon my fears would fly ; 
He could all my care destroy, 
Or convert it into joy. 
If he were but nigh, 

And I should not crave the balm 
Latent in his favorite psalm. 



59 



Men of Belial round me press, 
Grrief and doubt my soul possess 

In continual dread ; 
Love has proved a broken reed, 
Piercing in the hour of need, 
Faith and hope are fled — 
1 am wearied with alarm, 
Let me hear his favorite psalm. 

Help and solace thence he drew, 
And his chastened spirit grew 
Pure and meek and strong : 
And he learned to fret no more, 
But with gentle patience bore 
Undeserved wrong ; 

Leaning on the Mighty Arm 
Tendered in his favorite psalm. 

Bring the much-worn volume, graced 
With the strokes his pencil traced 

Near each pondered verse ; 
Let the words he loved so well. 
Every sinful murmur quell, 
And my fears disperse, 

While I find support and calm 
In my father's favorite psalm. 



60 



XVIII. 
THIRTY-SEVENTH PSALM. 

(PARTIAL PARAPHRASE.) 

Fret not, though ungodly foes 
Win success through evil-doing ; 

Justice on their pathway goes, 
Like a mower grass pursuing. 

Cease from anger, and be still. 
In the Lord alone delighting ; 

He will keep thy soul from ill. 
All thy works of love requiting. 

Trust Him then, in patience rest, 
Envy, hate, and wrath forsaking- 

For the meek and true are blest. 
When the heart of guile is aching. 



61 



Though the good man's wealth be small, 

Yet his heritage is better 
Than the pleasures that enthrall 

Many a reckless, thankless debtor. 

G-od sustains him with His hand 

Every change He wisely orders. 

Till safe-housed in heavenly land. 
Full rejoicing crown his borders. 

And the wicked, though in power, 
Like a bay-tree wide he spreadeth, 

Falls in some unthought-of hour. 
As the bough a sere leaf sheddeth. 

Mark the man, along v/hose way 
Upright deeds on faith attended — 

Peace was with him day by day, 
And his life in peace is ended. 



62 



XIX. 



DOUBTLESS HE IS AT REST. 



■ Doubtless he is at rest, though I find none without him." 

Letters op Lady Russell. 



" Doubtless he is at rest — 

At rest, though I find none." 
Should not the victor rest, 

Since victory is won ? 
And in a royal tent 

That overlooks the field. 
Fatigue and triumph blent 

A smooth, soft pillow yield ? 

"At rest, though I find none" — 

The ebb and flow of years 
Bring me, since he hath gone, 

Few joys and many tears ; 
But grief's thick tangling weeds 

Cumber the waves once clear, 
And joy's light skiff recedes 

In vain — he is not here. 



63 



When, by the woodman's axe, 

The forest-trees are fell'd, — 
Think ye no anguish racks 

The vines they once upheld ? 
Far off the pine is borne. 

But the crimson leaves that clung 
Around it, thence are torn 

And on sharp thickets flung. 

And as the ship goes by 

Still shores and flowery leas, 
Beneath the cloudless sky 

O'er-arching tropic seas, 
Doth the tall arrowy mast 

Those earth- prone tendrils heed. 
Left in the autumn blast 

To shiver, trail, and bleed ? 

The noble oak, if made 

A prop for lordly halls, 
Or quaintly carved, and laid 

On high cathedral stalls ; 
Will it, 'mid chants of praise. 

For mossy garlands care. 
That once, in greenwood days. 

Its branches loved to wear ? 



64 

And thou, my stately elm, 

Borne in full strength away, 
To flourish in a realm 

Unsullied by decay ; 
Thy head no tempest bows, 

Thy changes all are o'er ; 
Pillar in Grod's own house. 

Thou shalt go forth no more I 

Why then, with selfish call, 

Should I thy peace disturb ? 
Why, in my garden-wall, 

Thy sunlit foliage curb ? 
Or murmur, though bereft, 

When God has given to theo 
A rest so sweet, and left 

The restlessness to me ? 



65 



XX. 

THE PARTlNa YEAR 

December 31st, 1851. 

Pass, 'mid tempests raging, 

Pass, dark year ! 
For the strife now waging 

Paints thy cheer ; 
And, with spirit saddened, 

I review 
Loss of what once gladdened 

Like thy dew. 

Friends and kindred faded 

Like thy flowers — 
Hopes in anguish shaded 

Like thine hours— 

3* 



66 

Swiftly fell our sorrows 

Like thy rain — 
And no brilliant morrows 

Blanched their stain. 

Thus, all hope refusing, 

Long ago, 
Sate the patriarch,* musing 

O'er his woe : 
Aged, weary-hearted, 

Wanting bread. 
Those he loved departed, 

Lost or dead. 

Yet true hearts were pining 

For his name, 
Filial dreams entwining 

His worn frame. 
Loving hands preparing 

Rich array, 
For the old man's wearing, 

Far away. 

And our days, though painful, 

Have an end ; 
Our dark years are gainful. 

If they tend 

* Gen. xlii. 36. 



67 

Toward that fair existence — 

That blest goal, 
Where no dear one's distance 

Frets the soul. 

Then, 'mid storms resembling 

Thy career, — 
Full of tears and trembling — 

Pass, dark year ! 
Gloom thy changes followed, 

Clouds thy bier, 
And thy grave hath hollowed. 

Pass, dark year ! 



68 



XXI. 

DEPARTURE. 

The mournful hour at length has come, 

The hour that bids us part 
From what was once our love-lit home, 

In loneliness of heart, 
Though months ago its brightness fled, 
Though here we quailed with sickening dread, 
And here through long suspense were led, 

'Tis painful to depart. 

For many a dint is on the wall, 

By shrouded fingers set ; 
And still we listen for the fall 

Of footsteps echoing yet 
Along the floors they knew so well ; 
And even though the dimness tell 
Our lamp of love gone hence — its cell 

Must waken keen regret. 



69 



Ah! did that vanished light illume 
Our path, we should not grieve, 
Since cheerful house and sunny room 

No spirit- fetters weave : 
The roof-tree where a father dwelt, 
The casement where his clasp was felt, 
The hearth-stone, where in prayer he knelt, 
These, it is hard to leave. 

Never to feel his hand again— 

Nor hear his voice in prayer 
And gentle speech — ah, thought of pain ! 

Sound on the evening air: 
Wane, altered life ! 'mid vernal bowers, 
Or seek stern cities, void of flowers ; 
How can a home of earth seem ours 

When he will not be there ? 

Farewell, dear home, a long farewell, 

Imploring, ere we go, 
For others fated here to dwell, 

That they may never know 
One tithe of all our care and grief, 
While waiting, hopeless of relief. 
Like crew on raft near sunken reef, 

For final overthrow. 



70 



And would that in this hallowed place, 

His influence might stay, 
With silent, yet availing grace, 

Inclining men to pray ; 
Hushing each thought, each word of ill, 
As sometimes on a dew-bathed hill 
The morning freshness lingers still, 

When the dew is dried away ! 



71 



XXII. 
ST. JOHN'S PARK. 

We rested there, one Sabbath noon, 
While, with unceasing chime, 

To sweetest madrigals of June 
The fountain murmured time, 

And trees and flowers, in gladsome light, 

Dreamed not of hurricane or blight. 

Brightly, those waving boughs between, 
The golden sunshine glanced. 

On turf all newly mown and green, 
The very shadows danced, 

And yet around the spot there lay 

The stillness of the Sabbath day. 



Pleased with the pause from deafening din 

And turmoil of the week, 
We felt as mariners, who win 

(Far from the port they seek) 
Brief tarry in some verdant isle, 
That cheers them for a little while. 

And mute and moveless, long gazed we 

Like half-entranced folk. 
Till one voice, dearest of the three, 

The spell of silence broke : 
" Had I but riches, I would rear 
A cottage for my darlings here! 

" Through the long alleys, trim and cool, 

In summer we might walk, 
When moonlight touch'd yon lucent pool 

Beside its margin talk ; 
From noise and dust and trouble free, 
How pleasant would our dwelling be !" 

E'en as he spoke, those playful words 

Sent to my heart a chill, 
And shivered through its inmost chords 

With sudden, boding thrill, 
While I recalled the dismal show 
Once frequent on that field of woe. 



73 



For there were gloomy .vight^- ami soniKi.s 

Witnessed, in olden days, 
Where now the t'oot of childhood bounds. 

And tlie white fountain plays; 
It was a place of burial thenV 
For strangers and plagLie-stricken men. 

And ihns Hope's ray our home might gild- 
Love's branches o'er it wave — 

Yet nestling there, we did but build 
A mansion on a grave. 

And costly must the reckoning be, 

Paid, dearest, in our tears for thee I 



74 



XXIII. 



CLOUDS 



"And now mpn see not the bright light which is in the clouds ; but the wind 
passeth and cleanseth them." Job xxxvii 21. 



Sullen clouds around us lower, 
Father, since that dark, dark hour, 
When the Sea's unbridled power 

Grirt in deathly grasp thy form, 
Stilled each crimson current warm, 
Bade thy calm life ebb in storm. 

Aye ! but could we part the cloud. 
By whose pressure faith is bowed — 
Gladness stifled — courage cowed, 

And the hidden radiance test, 

Beaming on thy sinless breast, 

how bright would seem thy rest ! 



75 



He who treads, ere dawning-time, 
Cliffs no low-born mist may climb, 
From their summits sees, at prime, 

Silvery billows 'ueath him swell, 
And within them rainbows tell 
Where the auroral smile first fell : 

Yet the same clouds densely swim 
O'er the hind, in lowlands dim. 
And reveal no light to him. 

Thou Wind of Life Divine ! 

Draw us, with reviving sign, 

Toward the heights where glories shine. 

Holy Spirit ! Thou canst stir 
Balm-breaths from the land of myrrh* 
Round the mist-wreathed Sepulchre ! 

Pass before our path, and cleanse 
Shadows from these solemn glens ; 
Teach us, through Faith's crystal lens, 

* Cant. ch. iv. 6. 



76 



Looks of patience to uplift, 

Till the dark clouds past us drift, 

Opening many an azure rift. 

Or if darkness ne'er again 
From our destiny may wane — 
" Clouds returning after rain" — 

With inheartening gales of grace 
To endurance courage brace, 
Till we reach a cloudless place! 



77 



XXIV. 



MESSAG-ES TO THE DEAD. 



Would it not soothe us, in an hour of sighing, 

To bow the head 
Down by the couch whereon some friend was lying, 

Ere life were fled. 
And send a message by the loved one dying 

To the loved dead ? 

When kinsfolk here to other homes are going, 

We gladly break 
The choicest buds within our gardens growing, 

And bid them take 
The flowery gifts to some who prize their blowing, 

For our love's sake. 



78 



Or if no voiceless, yet expressive token 

Its aid may lend 
To v^^aft our meaning, then in language broken, 

Oft we commend 
Assurance of a love more felt than spoken, 

To each far friend. 

Why then to those who live in sunlight clearer, 

Should there not go 
Whispers of love by death made holier, dearer — 

Bidding them know 
How their sweet memory to our souls lies nearer 

Than aught below ? 

And where may messenger be found more fitting 

Such word to bear, 
Than gentle spirit from this gray Earth flitting 

To Heaven's pure air, 
And with its last fond smile together knitting 

Friends here and there ? 

My Father, if upon my path were shining 

Skies softly blue — 
And there were blossoms in its hedges twining, 

All moist with dew ; 
If on the Rod and Staff my faith reclining, 

No faltering knew — 



79 



Then, as an eaglet to the noon- beams turning, 

It were delight 
To bid thy gaze, mine upward way discerning, 

Pronounce it bright ; 
To breathe some sentence, like a meteor burning 

Through the grave's night. 

Or if thy gladness, in yon dazzling regions. 

Were incomplete. 
And thou could 'st miss me from those ransomed 
legions — 

That thronged street — 
Or in the yielding of thy soul's allegiance, 

One hindrance meet — 

Then would I seek through dying lips to send thee 

Tones clarion-clear. 
Would plead with Christ for angels to defend thee, 

G-ive faith for fear ; 
Yea, drain my life-blood, so I might but lend thee 

New strength and cheer. 

But what, beloved, to thy perfect dwelling. 

Can T supply ? 
The tears that from my troubled heart are welling. 

Thou canst not dry ; 
And who would feel Earth's woes in Heaven worth 
telling ? 

Not thou — not I. 



80 



It 



XXV. 



CHEERFULNESS. 



When first we knew the love-eclipse, 

Sent through our lives to stay, 
We thought around these quivering lips 

Smiles never more could play ; 
That kindly souls, by nature glad. 
Hearing our sorrow, must grow sad, 
And in our presence, ever after. 
The lightest-hearted check their laughter. 
It was not so. For a brief space. 
Friends greeted each wan, tearful face, 

With looks of answering woe : 
Then the world's river rolled along 
Its olden course through mart and throng ; 

How could that restless flow 
Of life and action turn aside 
To mourn because one wavelet died ? 



81 



And thus we learned that tears are vain, 

And vain each uttered moan ; 
The clouded soul must hoard its rain, 

Till it can weep alone. 
In every life-skein knots of ill 
Unravel at the Lord's good will : 
Why dim the hopes on others dawning, 
Because our own are turned to mourning 
When merry tongues to mirth beguile. 
We give them back a ready smile. 

With calm and cheerful air ; 
It must be so. Light speech and jest 
Are proffered to wayfaring guest ; 

We ask him not to share 
The dull, dark chamber where, at eve. 
We sit in solitude and grieve. 

As from that silent Cumbrian lake, ^ 

Whose waters veil a star. 
Tall crags and boles and tangled brake 

The daylight's entrance bar. 
That rests on wold and woody steep, 
Yet fails to pierce the holy deep, 
Where, each intrusive look defying, 
The loveliest gem of Night is lying : 
So, dearest, are we forced to bear 
Much of Life's broad and blinding glare ; 
4 



82 



But far beneath it lies 
In our heart's depths, a darkened pool, 
A low recess it cannot rule ; 

And from the upper skies, 
There thy mild beams reflected are, 
thou remote, but radiant star ! 



83 



XXVI. 

THE WISH. 

" I find much difficulty arising from indwelling sin. Oh ! when shall I be freed 
from ils dominion? 

Extract from an old Journal, keptby my Father in his youth. 

Heroes have wept o'er the wearying dearth 

Of thrones and realms on the subject earth : 

Poets, in cadences sad and stern 

As the sorrow pictured on Pagan urn, 

Have sung of a Freedom they might not win : 

Thou, oh beloved, didst mourn for sin. 

Yet the soft light of life's youthful day, 

When this plaint was written, around thee lay, 

The peace of Grod in thy heart had place. 

It lent to thy bearing a quiet grace. 

And none who were near thee discerned the need 

Of thine own deep longing to be freed. 

Others might trace thy swift growth, and see 
How the sapling was changing to shadowy tree — 
But unto thee all uncouth and dark 
Seemed the gnarling boughs, and the roughening bark, 



84 



And this was thy sigh o'er each fertile shoot, 
" Leaves may be fair, but they are not fruit. 

" Must I bear this burthen for many a year 
Of toil and struggle and sorrowing fear ? 
Will affiance forever fail and faint. 
Through this cruel serfdom, this clinging taint? 
0, to be free from my sin-linked chain ! 
When shall I wake, and deliverance gain?" 

Did no passing angel hear the cry, 

And pause on his mission to breathe reply ? 

" Youth's bright Spring must to Summer flush, 

Summer days into Autumn blush, 

Ere that passionate prayer may an answer find, 

Or thy bosom-serpent his coil unwind. 

" Yet a golden season shall come at last, 

A lull in the long relentless blast, 

For Redeeming Love will a radiance throw 

Over the road where the burthened go, 

And the shadows of evening are not for thee, 

Long ere they lengthen, thou wilt be free ! 

" Free as the skylark, at early morn, 

Leaving her younglings to hail the dawn ; 

Free as the mariner-fish that laves 

Its threatened sail beneath coral caves ; 

Free as a seraph, that soars and sings. 

And basks in the smile of the King of Kings. " 



85 



XXVII. 



" SUDDEN DEATH, SUDDEN GLORY." 



Isaiah xxxv. 4-10. 



Fear not, fearful heart, be strong ! 
For thy Saviour's glad appearing, 
Though He seem to tarry long, 
With unhoped-for speed is nearing. 
Lo ! the morning breaks apace, 

And the darkness, fleeing. 
Leaves the glory of His face 
Open to thy seeing. 
Soon thy dull, uncertain ear 
Angel-melodies shall hear, 
And thy stammering lip be telling 
All the rapture in thee swelling. 



86 



Long thy doubtful eyes have bent 

On Simoom and sand their glancf.- ; 
Now thy desert-time is spent, 
And past toil repose enhances. 

Where the mirage anguish dealt, 
Sheltered springs are flowing ; 
And in dens where dragons dwell, 
Grrass with rushes growing. 
Holy is thy path, and plain. 
Free from weed or root of bane ; 
And no enemy hath power 
There to ravin and devour. 



Fear not therefore ! He who gave 
Life for thy salvation calls thee ; 
He hath sanctified the grave. 

Whose abysmal gloom appals thee. 
Through its door to endless day, 

To His promise clinging. 
All His ransomed wend their way, 
Crowned with joy and singing. 
to taste that bliss undreamed, 
'Mid the ranks of Christ's redeemed. 
Safe from sorrow, sin, and sighing, 
More than pays the pang of dying ! 



87 



XXVIII. 
A FEW MORE YEARS FROM HEAVEN. 

" A few years would not be missed from my Eternity of bliss, and I can well 
aflord to spare them for your sake, and the poor Burmans. " 

Dr. Jubson to his Wife. 

A FEW more years, beloved ! Thou hast been 
Tired and imperilled in thy devious way, 
But now a breath of May 
In verdure robeth every past ravine, 

And rosy blossoms fringe life's downward slope, 
Paling thy boyhood's hope. 

Sun-arrows smote thee through the fervid noon — 
Nor turf nor shade the churlish lanes might edge, 
But near this grassy ledge, 
The gush of rivulets, in lulling croon, 

Woos thee to rest, o'er-canopied by trees, 
On table-land of ease. 

Meads lie before thee, with young lambs a-frisk, 
Thick woodlands, bronzing in a bath of gold, 
And loveliness untold 
SufFuseth all things, as yon kingly disc, 
Departing, leaves munificent largesse 

Of beauty, earth to bless. 



88 



Wherefore this hurry to escape ? mine own ! 
Thou art too weary with th' ascent, I trow, 
To prize the landscape now : 
But scenes and sources of delight unknown 
Shall open, ere we seek the solemn strand 
Of Silence, hand-in-hand. 

Doth Heaven attract thee, and its gem laid wall 
Dwarf the slight fences of thy lowly home? 
Art thou athirst to roam, 
Glades where the leaves of healing hourly fall. 
And scarlet poison-buds — fair masks of sin — 
Nor space nor culture win ? 

Oh, leave us not alone ! How can we bear 
The rough untwining of our lives from thine. 

The lack of Love's rich wine ? 
A few more years from Heaven wilt thou not spare. 
When hearts thou lovest desolate must be, 
And joyless, wanting thee ? 

Then tell the beckoning angels to return. 
When years have sped. Eternity is long — 
Affection's pleading strong : 
It is not strange they for thy coming yearn, 
But Heaven hath thousands, lovable as thee, 
And ah, not one have we ! 



89 



XXIX. 

WHY SHOULD WE KEEP HIM? 

Why should we keep him ? Bid the slave 
Just issued from immuring cave 

To bask in warmth benign, 
Forsake that new-found light and sheen, 
For gloom, and damp, and harsh routine, 

In the old darksome mine : 

But call not back the " pure in heart," 
From earth's dim prison who depart, 

Since, could they heed the call. 
It were a saddening task to bind 
Old flesh-bonds on reluctant mind, 

Old gyves on scaped thrall. 



90 



Why should we keep him ? Soaring bird 
Her long-clipt wing by free air stirred, 

To room and cage remand : 
Tell home-sick exile, who in fear 
And stealth the mother-soil draws near, 

His ?!hallop may not land : 

But seek not, in presumptuous raid, 
To wrest a soul from Heaven's arcade, 

Where choral tides of song 
Surge on in everlasting flow, 
And bright ones, blameless, come and go, 

The sacred aisles among. 

Why should we keep him ? When afar 
From sabre-clash, and brunt of war. 

On secret service hies 
The warrior, will his comrade ask 
For stalwart form and white-plum 'd casque, 

To dally where he lies : 

And with fond ministry assuage 
His painful wound — his fever's rage? 

Nay, such were craven plea ! 
Then urge not one whom Christ may need, 
Though sense should reel — eyes fail — heart bleed, 

To loiter here with thee. 



91 



XXX. 

OLD LETTER S. 

In cumbrous piles they lie ; 
Faded and yellow with the lapse of years, 
Phantoms of buried hopes and buried fears, 

Fossils of time gone by. 

One hand hath smoothed each scrawl : 
And Love with Moslem reverence fain would spare 
The meanest scraps that such endorsing wear. 

But finds not space for all. 

Fling, then, the few where hate 
Has o'er the surface trailed its cruel sign, 
And sated malice peeps through every line, 

Into the hungry grate. 



92 



The fruit of legal hire, 
In crafty warfare waged with cautious pen, 
To thwart the plottings held by knavish men, 

yield it to the fire I 

The plans for future gain 
By sanguine hearts propounded long ago ; 
Records of loss, of travel to and fro, 

And labour's busy train, 

Sweep, as from fallen trees, 
Such leaves aside, for value they have none ; 
New annals open with each New- Year's sun, 

And no man needeth these. 

Out of the doomed heap 
"What shall we winnow for a few short days 
Of respite from the annihilating blaze, 

Waiting o'er all to creep ? 

The phrases which unfold 
Some poor man's gratitude for timely aid, 
Or ready counsel that his fears allayed, 

When other friends looked cold. 

The kindly interchange 
Of Christian thought and hope, with some who knew 
His confidence in Grod, serene and true, 

No trial could estrange. 



93 



And cull with tenderest care, 
The half-confessions, veiled in playful mirth. 
Of love and longing for his own bright hearth, 

And those who clustered there. 

For business nought avails 
Him who with earth's activities hath done. 
Cares the tired sailor, when his port is won, 

For tattered cords and sails ? 

Ah no ! but Love remains, 
And deeds of goodness unto Heaven belong, 
And thoughts of Jesus oft on memory throng, 

When all beside them wanes. 



94 



1 



XXXI. 
THE FIRM FOOT. 



" The firm foot finJs firm footing, the weak falters, though it be standing on a 
Rock." 

John Stbrung. 



On a stern rock, shelving to the ocean, 
Quickly to mine aid the dear one ran, 

Placed me far above the waves' wild motion, 
Saying, " Let me help you while I can." 

Circled by his arm, I viewed abysses 
Where insurgent billows froth and roar, 

And the daring foam defiance hisses 
To impassive boulders on the shore. 

Firm his footing, often though J faltered, 
While down reef-girt crevices we peered, 

Scarce an errant gleam with Twilight paltered- 
Captive Twilight, in those donjons sphered. 



95 



Sadder omens in our sky now darkle, 
Deeper fissures our advance impede: 

But his cheering smiles no more may sparkle, 
Nor his strong arm give the help we need. 

Yet why pine we thus for human nerving ? 

Murmur when afflictions round us flock ? 
Lies there not, in majesty unswerving. 

Still beneath our feet the Perfect Rock ? 

Let the rushing sea-swell howl and heighten, 
And the loud winds buffet as they list, 

Soon the firmament anew shall brig^hten, 
By each rampant wave the Rock be kiss'd. 

Ah, we know it, yet if storms be raving. 

Will the pain-pressed weakling move as lithe 

As the mariner from boyhood braving 

Danger with calm brow and carol blithe ? 

So this heart of mine, in faith unsteady, 
Longeth for the days ere grief began, 

Longeth for the voice, with love once ready, 
Saying, " Let me help you while I can." 

By the magnet-force within Thee centered. 
Bind us to Thyself, Rook of Peace ! 

And our yearnings for the strong ones entered ' 
Into Thy safe covert, then will cease. 



96 



XXXII. 
I WOULD NOT BE WITHOUT THIS GRAVE, 

I WOULD not be without this grave, 

Though countless wealth its purchase were, 

The simplest weeds that near it wave, 
To proud exotics I prefer, 

And think no plot of verdure vies 

With that where clay so precious lies. 

My coming hardly scares the ants 

From toil and traffic through the grass, 

Nor back to his sequestered haunts 
Springs the shy squirrel when I pass. 

Conscious, perchance, he need not fear 

One who is glad to linger here. 



97 



And the bright sunshine wakens thought 
Of days as bright, when thou and I, 

On bloom-enamelled prairies, sought 
Which of our steeds would faster fly : 

Lily and heath, and rose-fraught bough, 

Lavished their odors then as now. 

But now, my love, thou art not here — 

It is the acme of my bliss 
To kiss the sods above thy bier, 

And dream I feel thy answering kiss, 
That, breathed upon this sacred knoll, 
My sighs may penetrate thy soul. 

To watch the sunbeams, as they glint 
And fleck the sward with quivering ray, 

Fancying the while, they dimly hint 
Glories that cluster round thy way. 

Till the soft fleece-clouds seem to hold 

Thy semblance in their silvery fold. 

To think the wintry storms of snow 
Veiling thy tomb, in swift descent 

And dazzling parity, but show 

How gleams the raiment without rent. 

Blemish or flaw, that round thee flows : 

No fuller's skill such whiteness knows. 



98 



Oh had thy last long sleep been slept 
On Ocean's ever-blanching floor, 

Or had the wild tornado swept 
Thine ashes to a hostile shore, 

I could not kneel, as now I kneel. 

Nor thy calm presence near me feel. 

And therefore, in mine hours of care, 
I muse on this beloved mound — 

This chapel of my spirit, where 

In silent worship strength is found, 

And ask, what blessing could I crave 

Like the possession of this grave ? 



99 



XXXIII. 

YOUTH HAS FLED. 

Youth has fled ! 
liife's fresh garlands all are dead. 

Youth has fled ! 
And its fair companions twain, 
Joy and Hope, come not again. 

how bright 
Looked my life in Hope's sweet light ! 

how bright 
Seemed the rose-hued scenes that lay 
In her vista far away. 



^ 



100 

Joy stood there, 
And his proud lip laughed at care ; 
Asking, with triumphant eye, 
In Love's presence who could sigh, 

Grrieve or die ? 
Blind to foes that near him staid, 
Couched in cruel ambuscade. 

Swift and strange 
Came the dreary, dreary change ; 
And my summer playmates went 
Into life-long banishment. 

Joy's fond schemes 
Faded like forgotten dreams. 
As the clasp of Love relaxed, 
Pallid Hope's gay tinting waxed. 
And Youth's force, no longer fed, 
Failed, as dahlias droop the head. 
Too early by keen frost disquieted. 

What then is left 
To one thug cheerless and bereft? • 
Must I not henceforth bend my wistful gaze 
On the bleak earth, in sorrow and amaze? 

My crippled heart. 
How can it suffer such enfeebling smart. 
And in life's caravan again have part? 



101 

Nay, lift thine eye, 

child of Grod, on high ! 
Take Patience for thy staff, and calmly climb 
The narrow way across the Hills of Time. 
Seemeth it long and lonely ? When it ends, 
Thou wilt be welcomed by thy banished friends, 

For Joy awaits 
Thy passage through the empearled gates ; 
By Love's own hand thy weary head 

Will be anew engarlanded ; 
Then, too, shall Hope and Youth from exile break, 
And never more deceive thee nor forsake ! 



102 
XXXIY. 

THE WALDENSIAN PASTOR* 

There was silence — thrilling silence — in the wide 

and well-filled hall, 
Where reverend figures rose to greet a man of stature 

small, 
And gathering close around him, formed a living, 

breathing wall. 

All eyes were full of kindness, while they marked 

the slender frame. 
The sun-browned visage glowing, half with pleasure, 

half with shame, 
And the sweet though broken syllables, that faltered 

as they came. 

For through his frail, embarrassed form, there coursed 
the ancient blood 

Of a race that dared the wrath of Rome — her witche- 
ries withstood — 

And stemmed through medigeval years her faith-en- 
gulphing flood ; 

* Rev. J. p. Revel, who visited America in 1853, as a delegate 
from the Waldensian churches. 



103 



Who kept the Word of Life unharmed, as dark volca- 
noes hold 

Fires of strange depth and potency beneath unsightly 
mould, 

That burn in spite of storm and sun, and sterile sur- 
face cold. 

And methought both hall and audience seemed from 

vision to dissolve. 
While ,in their stead did beetling crags, and barren 

vales evolve, 
Where skin-clad shepherds led their flocks, in meek yet 

firm resolve. 

1 saw the traitorous compact close in brief and bloody 

strife — 
With massacre of white-haired men, and girls in flush 

of life— 
With three score throats on one fell morn, bared 

lamb-like, to the knife. 

And I caught the wail of frightened babes — the mo- 
ther's piercing shriek. 

When her child-martyr downward rolled o'er preci- 
pice and peak, 

And mountain-vultures traced its path, with keen 
insatiate beak. 



104 



I beheld the face of Cromwell, when the tidings 
crossed the wave, 

And his swiftly-penned reproaches, backed by arma- 
ment and glaive, 

Won protection for the kindred of the saints he could 
not save. 

And I heard the voice of Milton tell, in deep prophetic 

tone, 
Of the awful wrath impending over tiara and throne, 
When God maketh inquisition for the murder of His 

own. 

Then with bowed head I hid my tears, for they were 
falling fast. 

At thought of thee, no longer here, as in like seasons 
past. 

When I could view in thy dear face, mine own emo- 
tions glass'd. 

there are higher, older Hills than rise on Vaudois 

ground ! 
By clearer lakes enjewelled, and with virgin turrets 

crowned ; 
Where the fury of the oppressor hath at last a limit 

found. 



105 



There from martyrs and confessors, and from saints 
of olden days, 

Men of whom earth was not worthy, and whose suf- 
ferings meet no praise, 

Thou mayest learn' the Noble Lesson,'' and the rude 
Waldensian lays. 

There no rough and biting tempests o'er defenceless 
dwellings howl, 

There no direr storm lies brooding beneath monkish 
robe and cowl, 

That with false pretence of friendship, around peace- 
ful hamlets prowl. 

Not in twos, and threes, and fifties, do they meet for 

worship now. 
And no sentinel is watching upon cliff or sturdy 

bough, 
To discern the tramp of soldiers, and due space for 

flight allow. 

Nor are flaming beacons planted, with a flicker wild 

and bright, 
To denote some secret council, amid valleys wrapped 

in night, 
For alike on plain and fastness shines the One Eternal 

Light. 

5 



106 



Well T know that it is better in that blessed land to 
bide, 

Than to gaze on human weakness, though to early 
saints allied — 

Why then, if thy gain is certain, cannot I be satis- 
fied ? 

Grod be with the gentle stranger I who has met a wel- 
come here. 

Who, of foreign name and birth-place, hath a lineage 
ever dear, 

Grod protect and guide his journey — keep him safe 
from foe and fear ! 

But for thee, love, prayer were needless, since thy 
longings are fulfilled. 

Since thy faith with sight is mingled, and each wan- 
dering wish is stilled 

Into perfect acquiescence vi^ith whatever G-od has 
willed. 

My dream is gone — From Alpine heights fades off 

the roseate glow, 
I see no longer peasant-groups, at prayer amid the 

snow ; 
But reverend men who part in peace, and pondering, 

homeward go. 



107 



XXXV. 



S YM P A T H Y 



Strong are the angels, pure and strong, » 
And dearest, thou art with them now- 
Like powers of soul to thee belong', 
Like purity from dream of wrong, 
Rash deed, or futile vow. 

Thou delv'st, uncalled by lapsing hour, 

In mines of rapture ever-new ; 
The while my heart — a trampled flower- 
Asks — is there aught of peace or power 
In common with us two? 

How, — crushed beneath the hoof of care, 

Unskilled to rise and bloom aright, — 
How may its grovelling fibres share 
True sympathy with saints who wear 
Heaven's panoply of light? 



108 

They may — the Polar star on high 

Looks northward still in duteous aim : 
But Polar plants on prairies lie, / 
And summer droughts their petals dry — 
Yet the same Pole doth claim 

From both liege service, — though in vest 
Of light, the star through ether rides ; 
While serpents glide with venomed crest, 
And glaring heats all growth molest. 
Where the weak plant abides. 



109 



XXXVI. 

THE RECALL. 

Come back to me, mine own ! 
let thy re-assuring look once more 

Probe, as in times of yore, 
My dumb disquiet to its inner core ! 
Chase every terror, and my doubts arrest, 

Till childhood's careless rest 
Creeps o'er me, folded to my father's breast, — 

Come back to me, mine own ! 

Come — it is very long 
Since I have seen thee — bitter lore is gleaned — 

Dark years have intervened — 
And from all ties, save one, my heart is weaned, 
Ah I in thy presence ever seemed I safe, 

No surly foe might chafe 
Thy child, nor fling her forth, a helpless waif. 

On floods of strife and wrong-. 



110 



'Tis said the Genoese" 
Turn trembling from the fire-flies' fitful light, 

And close their casements tight, 
Lest the mild flashes come from parted sprite 
That loves to hover near its earthly bower, 

And breathe, in starry shower, 
Its blessing upon friends who shrink and cower, 

Nor dare the signal seize. 

But come thou back, mine own ! 
I will not blench, nor ask thee to desist, 

Though on my brow or wrist, 
A fadeless brand reveal" where thou hast kiss'd. 
Nay, if thy spirit-touch with horror fill 

Frail sense, and pulses chill, — 
The windows of my soul shall open still — 

Come back to me, mine own ! 

Come — for 1 long to hear 
If the fair dreams of Heaven we used to weave 

From clues inspired ones leave. 
Were but as children's guesses, who believe 
They can divine, by wavings of the veil, 

When foot-lights flash and pale. 
The unseen drama in its bright detail? 

Now — all to thee is clear. 



Ill 



Come back to me, mine own ! 
Come when the Sabbath, in fresh garments decked, 

Serenely would collect 
What sjjars of holy thought the week has wrecked. 
In hush of twilight, or with midnight tread, 

When the wan moonbeams shed 
Their mournful influence near my pillowed head, 

Come back to me, mine ov/n ! 

But come not when I die 
Lest countersign of Faith forgotten be 

In joy of meeting thee. 
In that dread moment I would only see 
Jesus, our Surety, our Unfailing G-uide ; 

No earth-born staff may bide 
The swelling of death's dark, impetuous tide. 

Then come not when I die ! 

Come when, the ford passed o'er. 
Unto my weary soul the boon is given — 

Sin's latest shackle riven — 
To change this life of care for rest in Heaven. 
Then, at my call, no longer unavailing. 

Come thou, mine advent hailing 
To seas of bliss, where thou hast long been sailing, 

And leave me nevermore I 



112 



XXXVII. 

"LET NOT HIM THAT aiRDETH ON THE 
HARNESS BOAST HIMSELF AS HE THAT 
PUTTETH IT OFF." 

I SATE, one pleasant morn of Spring, 
With Christians, met for early prayer, 

And heard their voices ring 
Grod's praises through the air. 

And then the Pastor said, "I deem 
That like the morning's vernal calm 

Is youthful convert's dream. 
When first he feels the balm 

" Of pardoning love, and truly blest, 
On his dear Lord reclines, secure 

Such happy, happy rest, 

Will all through life endure. 

" He fain, like Bird of Paradise, 

With plumes unsoiled, would float along, 

Sweet light his hourly prize. 
And joy his only song : 



118 



" While soon, how soon, some reckless stonn 
To earth the astonished dreamer fling's, 

Where mire and sand deform 
His weary, battered wings." 

Then answered one of buoyant mien, 
(The sunshine on his brow was sweet,) 

" Not so — on Christ who lean, 
Their safety is complete. 

" My heart hath tasted of His love : 
Can aught belonging to the dust 

His Constant care remove, 
Or shake my clinging trust? 

" Let furious storms around me roll— 
Their waters will but wash my wing, 

And passing, make my soul 

More gladly heavenward spring!" 

With lenient smile the Pastor heard 
His boast, and watched his look elate, 

Nor sought, by trenchant word, 
His triumph to abate. 

But thinking grief might quickly bid 
That glad ingenuous carol change 

To the deep pathos hid 
In music's minor range : 



114 

I wept — remembering other days, 
When pensive thankfulness and pain 

Met in my father's gaze, 

And checked my soaring strain. 

I marvelled much he did not share 
My fondness for each vaunting lay, 

That challenged earth and air 
A Christian to dismay : 

But he had suffered more than I, 
Had learned how in refining flame, 

Would Jesus purify 

All souls that to Him came. 

The neophyte, by furnace-door," 

Untouched by pain, with warmth replete, 
May laud the beaming ore — 

And love th' innocuous heat : 

They who have felt the forked fire 

Rive its fierce way through quivering vein. 

Tempt not, in rash desire, 
The crucible again. 

They only ask for grace to bear 

Each needful pang, till fully purged 

From dross, the metal fair 
In glory hath emerged. 



115 



XXXVIII. 

FROM JAFFA TO JERUSALEM. 

MAGIC words ! what joyous thought 

Their utterance in ray girlhood brought! 
pleasant nights ! when we were wont to trace 

In bright, anticipative glee, 

(Finger and lip from tremor free) 
Our plans of travel to each Holy Place. 

To talk of some auspicious morn, 

When, by light breezes onward borne 
Over the Isle-flecked Sea in winged keel. 

Our pilgrim-feet at length should land 

On Jaffa's time-encrusted sand, 
Our souls the rush of recollections feel. 



116 

Watcliing the sapphire breakers n^ar, 
To think of Peter, wandering near : 

Another Perseus," hurrying to unh)ck 
The spells that heathen empires bound 
In chains more hopeless far than wound 

Of old fair maiden unto fatal rock. 

There, too, the Lion-hearted King" 

Made Paynim helm and corslet ring, 
By his sole presence turned the battle's tide : 

There Saladeen the valiant gave 

A charger to his foeman brave : 
There knelt St Louis^* when his mother died. 

There haughty Walter de Brienne" 

Cheered from the crucifix his men : 
And there the gentle Godfrey^^lying lay. 

Who, since the King of Kings had worn 

A mocking coronal of thorn, 
Pushed golden circlet from his brows away. 

On some succeeding morn to hear 
The name that on crusading ear 

With full requital for past anguish fell ; 
Then tearful shouts the tidings hailed" 
Through varying hosts one heart prevailed, 

Heedless of broils which on the way befell. 



117 



To climb each venerable mound, 

Mark Zion's bulwarks, moss-embrowned, 
Where ^ray-haired mourners" w;)il for Israel's woes; 

With tears of gratitude to wet 

The solemn sward of Olivet, 
And track the path to Bethany that goes. 

Oh vanished vision of delight ! 

We would not now, e'en if we might, 
Again those folded plans to daylight ope: 

The well-known words are potent still 

To send through every pulse a thrill, 
But 'tis a thrill of memory, not of hope. 

For thou hast gained a higher goal, 

It troubles not thy favored soul. 
In the true Zion, rich with gold and gem, 

That while on earth it was not thine 

To press the soil of Palestine, 
Or greet with joyful tongue Jerusalem. 

And for ourselves, on Zion's steep, 

What could we do but sit and weep, — 
How might our withered hearts within us burn? 

How offer up a tribute meet 

In Manger-cave or Dolorous street, 
Missing thy sympathy at every turn? 



118 



XXXIX. 



THE THREE PICTURES. 



Pictures three uncared-for dwell, 

Each in its appointed nook, 
Lone as anchorite in cell, 

And as rarely meeting look : 
Yet how priceless all would be, 
Canvas, — card, — and ivorie — 
Did they but resemble thee I 

One thy likeness gives in youth, 
When a firm unbending will, 
Fearless in behalf of truth, 

Bravely met and vanquished ill ; 
But in that unmellowed gaze, 
Less of ruth and meekness stays 
Than adorned thine after days. 

On another may be viewed 

iSymbols of the wearing strife. 

And the world's solicitude 
Pressing oft on middle life. 



119 

Oh, not there thy love-glance beams, 
That no longer, save in dreams. 
On mine every movement streams! 

In the third, v^^ith fruitless wile, 
Long the patient artist tried 

To ansnare thy gentle smile, — 
Then his pencils flung aside, 

Saying — " 'Twas my student-plaint, 

Bard or champion I could paint. 

Failing ever in a saint !'■ 

Skill of limner best is shown, 
When, in one symmetric whole, 

Through resembling traits are thrown 
Hidden beauties of the soul : 

Thus not one of all the three, 

Poor attempts to picture thee, 

Seemeth precious unto rae. 

But it matters not. Thy face 
Safe within my heart is shrined, 

G-uarded there, its dormant grace 
Soon would outward semblance find, 

Had I but sufficient art 

Unto canvas to impart 

That true portrait in my heart. 



120 



XL. 



A SKETCH. 

The arching head in shapely outline told 

That holiest faith controlled 
All meaner passions with unrivalled sway, 

And trained thetn to obey 
The law of love : yet years of anxious thought 
I And weary toil had taught 
The heart deep lessons, nor had Time erased 
From his pale brow the lines by sorrow early traced 

Around the temples in thin tresses lay 

Soft hair, and slightly gray : 
The quiet mouth, so faultless in its curve. 

Betokened calm reserve ; 
Not stoic apathy, too proud to show 
A share in human woe ; 
But thoughtful reticence, afraid to add 
New burthens unto souls already worn and sad. 



121 



And very lovely were the changeful eyne, 

That used to gaze in mine 
With pure affection, — oft, in musings deep, 

So still, they seemed to sleep — 
Yet strong when roused, as with a lightning-flash, 
Ill-doers to abash — 
Beaming most brightly when he heard, attent. 
The messages of truth from Grod's own altar sent. 

Ev'n strangers loved the unobtrusive grace, 

So gladly yielding place 
To others, for true excellence was seen 

Through his retiring mien ; 
And they who in long friendship knew him best. 
Felt, when he sank to rest. 
From their own household chains a link was torn — 
Mourned his untimely loss, as loving brothers mourn. 

Well might they mourn him ! How much more 
may we, 
Who miss his sportive glee, — 
His firm support that barred the approach of harm 

With intercepting arm — 
His soothing readiness our griefs to hear 
With sympathetic ear — 
His lov/, mild voice, that never failed to make 
Some plea when others erred, for charity's sweet sake. 



122 



I search through shifting crowds, with instinct fine, 

For lineaments like thine : 
Doubtless in those I pass, their children see 

Looks dear as thine to me ; 
Yet, love, with thine no form or face I meet 
Seems ever to compete : 
And the unending list of all thy worth, 
Now only proves the void thy flight has left on earth. 



123 



XLI. 

THE WHITE STONE 

Eev. ii. 17. 

YE favored of Heaven ! to whom are brought 

Crystals with conquering name, 
Surely the guerdon with triumph is fraught, 
And the ciphers are bright with a reflex caught 

From the Citadel whence they came. 

Do they not glisten in vivid light, 

Pure as the lambent rays 
G-leaming from bulwarks that banish night. 
Founded in beryl and chrysolite. 

Sunless, yet all a-blaze ? 

And the mystic graving no eye may scan. 

Hath it not marvellous power 
To aid the possessor in arduous plan. 
Blasting his foes with puissant ban, 

Prescient of perilous hour ? 



124 

Nay — the holy signet is white and cold, 

No rich colors vein its core, 
And its contact chilleth, as when we hold 
Hands in our own whose pale stiffening fold 

Shall return our clasp no more. 

And the brilliant hues in earth's bubbles starred 

At the stone's sure test, grow dim : 
For it comes from a Brother whose " face was marred," 
And the swart lines, oarven by stylet hard, 

With a strange, sad meaning brim. 

'Tis a Stone of Sorrow ! friends who grieve 

In trials you may not tell I 
Meekly the gift of your Lord receive, 
For the tears you weep and the sighs you heave, 

He knows and apportions well : 

And brightly yet through each line of woe, 

Shall a prismal lustre peer. 
When they who suffered with Christ below. 
Read by His Love in meridian glow. 

Sorrows that crushed them here 



125 



XLII. 

THE QUEST FOR THE SPIRIT. 

•'Where," said the Teacher/' "to a heathen Sage, 

Where, when this stage 
Of life is ended, doth the spirit go ?" 

"Ah, did we know," 
Sighed the sad Indian, " think you we would rest 

Till our fond quest 
Had followed with untiring zeal its track, 
And to accustomed haunts had won it back?" 

Thus for thy dead, poor Pagan, thou dost grope, 

Devoid of hope ; 
While hearts more wisely trained thy longing share, 

And almost dare 
At Death's dark robe in agony to snatch. 

Might they but catch 
One glimpse, though fleeting, of the friends they love, 
Newly enfeoffed in estates above. 



126 



Shame on our hearts ! that yield because they must, 

And will not trust 
Our treasures unto Him whose peerless might 

Marshals their flight ; 
Though in full-force, — yea, sealed with bleeding hands, 

The promise stands. 
And from a Saviour's love, a Saviour's side, 
Nor death nor life believers may divide^ 

"Long years ago, a lady, fair and good. 

In durance stood, 
G-azing on warriors of iron race. 

With passive grace. 
Strong though her ramparts — her retainers, bold — 

They could not hold 
A garrison assailed with lawless brands 
Borne through the midnight by out-numbering bands. 

So all was lost. All, did I say? not all, 

While, safe from thrall, 
Her absent lord could in concealment dwell. 

They bade her (ell 
His place of hiding — swore, if she would speak, 

No rage to wreak 
On her rich harvests, or her hapless child, 
Else spoiled and murdered : but the matron smiled 



127 



Alike at threat and bribe, as one who knew 

fc^ore she must rue 
Speech or refusal : till, with rallitd strength, 

She owned at length, 
Would but her conquerors from bondage spare 

The youthful heir. 
So should the refuge that his sire concealed, 
Be as a ransom for the boy revealed. 

And it was done. Her promise won its meed, 

Her child was freed. 
Then with unblenching eye, and cheek that burned, 

The mother turned : 
" Here in my heart my husband lieth hid — 

Now, will ye bid 
Doomsman and falchion for his neck prepare ? 
Your way is open — search, and find him there I" 

Surely this legend, if we heed it, will 

Comfort instil. 
Is there not One who to our seeking cry, 

Grives like reply ? 
" Mourners, the dear ones whom ye cannot .see, 

Are safe with me ; 
And ye, by faith, their happiness may share, 
Turn to my heart — and ye shall find them there?" 



128 



XLIII. 

MY MOTHER'S SONa. 

Dear Mother, sing the ballad, sung 

So oft in olden time, 
For happy memories are strung 
Like beads upon the rhyme. 
Give swell and trill 
Full utterance, till 
This harrowing fear 
Shall disappear, 
And all life's dissonances flee 
Before that tuneful rosarie ; 
That sun-ray flung on rime. 

Sing it ; let each melodious note 

Revive some buried joy ; 
And shadowy visions downward float, 

As bees round blue-bells toy ; 



129 

Oh, could the strain 

But wake again 

Ears that once heard 

Entranced, each word, 
And softly on our senses rise 
The glancing ot" beloved eyes, 
liured by the sweet decoy ! 

Sing it no more — that joyous song, 

So full of other years I 
The flexile voice, in gladness strong, 
Grows tremulous with tears ; 
And lips that smiled, 
By music wiled 
From care, lie cold 
In earth's dark fold. 
Send from sad heart through chamber dim, 
Death-dirge and penitential hymn — 
Not songs of happy years ! 



180 



XLIV. 

THE SICK ROOM. 

The lagging hours are dreary, how dreary ! 

Yet 'neath my windows, all night long, 
The tramp of passers marks till I am weary, 
Each moment as by stroke of gong — 
Yet warily beside my bed, 
My tender nurses tread ; 
And still through painful hours I pine, * 

To feel my father's arm once more around me twine. 

What save the missing of his care hath wrought 

This malady ? Each lonely year 
Unto my failing strength fresh burthens brought: 
How gaily borne, had he been here I 
With him how easy to sustain 
The stress on heart and brain I 
How pleasant to my feverish ear 
Would sound one prayer of his, now softly whispered 
near ! 



131 



Fond futile fancies ! rather let me turn, 

In each new phase of want or pain, 
To One who weakest suppliant will not spurn, 
Who sees my languor, and is fain 

From these dull eyes to wipe the tear, 
Quelling each grief and fear, 
And warding perils from my side, 
When through the Straits of Death my shuddering 
prow must glide. 

O'er all mine earthly future darkness reigns, 

Lamb of Grod, be Thou my Light ! 
I cannot worship now in hallowed fanes, 
Yet help me, as an acolyte. 

To hymn Thy praises, since I know 
My stunted faith will grow 
Beneath Thy training, firmer far 
Than if unpruned it lay where sunnier vineyards are. 

Lord, at Thy voice the hurricane is quiet. 

Winds from the South the vex'd Earth tame, 
And Thou, with but a word, canst hush the riot 
Careering through my powerless frame : 
Shall not Thy hand my spirit hold, 
As mailed chieftain"" bold , 

Some jewel precious in his eyes. 
Would in clenched palm secure from covetous emprise? 



182 



Or if awhile it please Thee to prolong 

This wasting anguish, teach me how 
To kiss Thy loving rod, though sorrows throng, 
And humbly to Thy will to bow : 

If health should never more be mine, 
Still let me not repine : 
The shallow brooks of Time may fail — 
With Thee all fulness dwells, who seek Thee must 
prevail. 



133 



XLV. 

THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS. 

Seldom, when life is young and dear, 

And all whom best we love surround us, 
Heed we the viewless guardians near. 

Who move in fair battalions round us. 
If kindred voices say " Look up," 

Each threatening cloud some blue discloses, 
And pledged by them, in bitterest cup. 

Some sweetness still reposes. 

Not until, heart-oppressed and cold. 

We sit by joy's last dying ember. 
Do angels tell us, as of old, 

*" The words your Master spake, remember." 
And while from ashen fruits of earth. 

We turn away with loathing shiver, 
Prove to our parching souls the worth 

Of a Life-yielding river. 

* Ijuke xxiv. 6. 



134 

The nightingale is silent, when 

The blushing Rose he loves so dearly 
Bares her bright heart to breezy ken, 

Or in calm lake is mirrored clearly. 
He will not on her joy intrude 

While the day's rumour round her ringeth, 
But in her evening solitude, 

Propped by a thorn, he singeth. 

And rarely, when that glorious strain 

Hath midnight air with music flooded. 
Will listeners long for Noon's prtmd reign, 

In robes no gem of song hath studded : 
So they to whom the angels sing 

" Songs in the night" of gloom and sorrow. 
And memories of Jesus bring. 

Sigh not for happier morrow. 

Still, holy visitants, awnke 

New thoughts of our Redeemer's presence ! 
Still may your ministrations make 

Each desert place of life a pleasaunce : 
Your wisdom choose some potent leaf 

To heal the pain within us gnawing, 
Our sorrowing souls in bands of grief, 

To sorrowing Saviour drawing ! 



135 



Oh, go not hence ! Dark cohorts wait 

Too near us, in resolved endeavor 
To seize some undefended gate, 

And hold it as their own forever. 
Save us, oh G^od I from storm of sin, 

Through hearts erewhile Thy temple darting, 
From alien legions trampling in, 

And Seraphim departing. 



186 



XLVI. 

THE TRIUMPH OF CHRIST'S CAUSE. 

As one by one the withering leaves 

Wlieel mournfully to earth, 
Each like a sigh the Summer heaves 

Over its short-lived mirth ; 
And banshee winds shriek out their fear 
Lest Spring no more, with wand of cheer, 
Evoke new glories from the deepening gloom, 
And clothe each barren place in turfage, moss, or 
bloom. 



Still are we certain, year by year, 

Though the despoiling gale 
O'er glebe and forest domineer, ^ 

God's promise will not fail : 
Seed-time and harvest, cold and heat, 
Successive fill their office meet ; 
There comes no ray of light, no snow, or rain, 
But nourishes in turn rich fruit and yellow grain. 



137 



And yet when from the household tree 

The loveliest branches go, 
As one by one we sadly see 

Each precious form laid low, 
Touched in its prime by icy breath 
Upstreaming from the Vale of Death — 
What hope the famished soul may then appease ? 
Hungering for human love — chilled through by that 
fell breeze. 

God reigneth still. His word is truth, 

And without let, or pause, 
Still onward, in immortal youth, 

Moves the Redeemer's cause. 
Spring may tell forth her floral dower — 
Autumn unroof each grove and bower — 
But He who calls and checks the flood of green, 
To His own kingdom's weal subdues each varying 
scene. 

We know it : yet the soul grows faint, 

And the rebellious will, 
Unschooled to yield without complaint, 

In faith a novice still, 
Hears with deep inward pang the call 
" The Master needs thy best— thine all :" 
From the once loyal lip comes wayward moan, 
Because the Kinj? we serve has taken back his own. 



138 



But not to one sad heart alone 

These agonies are sent, 
For martyr-souls, in ages gone, 

With sharper swords were; rent. 
And think not victor-crown and palm 
Are gathered in inglorious calm ! 
Can wheat of price be garnered without bale, 
Till cleared from clinging chaff by oft-descending flail? 

Faith in Christ's ruling solaced them, 

Be it enough for thee 
To know that Saviour's diadem 

G-leams yet o'er land and sea. 
Let not thy weeping hinder toil," 
Nor from His wise behests recoil : 
Fearless and patient on the field abide, 
Where those thou lovest fell, till with them glorified. 



18i) 



XLVII. 

MOONLIG-HT ON THE SEA-SHORE. 

The shining moonbeams lie 

Upon the quiet sea — 
'Tis a fair sight to many an eye — 

It is not fair to me. 

Yet once I loved to spend 

Hours on the shore alone, 
And dreamed I heard some travelled friend 

Tell, in unvarying tone — 

How, from barbaric coast. 

Safe, as on daisied turf 
The olive babes are early tossed, 

To frolic 'mid the surf. 

How citadels of ice, 

Whose sailing turrets gleam. 
At dawn of day, on seamen's eyes 

With bright but murderous beam, 



140 

Pause in their onward course, 

And then, by sudden veer, 
Melt on the waves in deadly force, 

But leave the vessel clear. 

How sparry caverns shine, 

In opulence below ; 
In veiled beauty sea-flowers twine, 

And coral arbors grow, 

I knew not then the goal 

To which my love must tend : 

No malice murmured in thy roll, 
Oh Sea, thou treacherous friend ! 

Till, on one fatal day, 

False were thy smiles to me, 
Thy strength was cruel — fierce thy spray, 

Oh dark, remorseless Sea ! 

And thou, bland Moon, didst look 

With as complacent light 
Upon the woe we could not brook. 

As on the waves to-night. 

Therefore thy sparkling rays. 

When o'er -the Sea they float, 
Seem, with the same oppressive gaze, 

Still on our grief to gloat. 



141 
But tVoiii Heaven's holy noon, 

That mocking light will flee ; 
Thy power evanish, callous Moon I 

And thine, unpitying Sea I 

While he, whose loss we weep, 

Has dropped life's weary oar, 
Where on cold sands no moonbeams sleep, 

And storms assail no more. 



142 



XLVIII. 

FAMILY PRAYER. 

The buried city of the Past lies hid 

By the dull Present, yet within its halls 

I love to wander, from intrusion rid, 

And con the pictures panelling the walls. 

There in soft coloring tarrieth niany a scene 
We viewed together ; pleasant is the show 

Of lawn and coppice, fresh with early sheen, — 
Of moon-lit waters, laughing as they flow. 

Again in graceful sway the locust flowers 

Droop their white clusters o'er our western home : 

Again we while long winter evening hours 
With minstrel-glamour, or with salient tome 

And there are storms we baffled side by side — 
iSongs that enthralled us, heard and heard again- 

The rush of eloquence in forceful tide. 
Pouring its freshet on the captive brain. 



ws 



Yet to one scene more willingly betakes 

My soul-glance, and more reverent love I bear: 

There, — meekly as an ambient ripple breaks 

On some smooth inlet — lives my father'' s prayer. 

1 hear it nov^ — the low-toned hamble plea, 

Through the dear name of Him who died to save, 

Asking forgiveness — strength for what might be 
Each day's allotment — conquest o'er the grave. 

Long hath that prayer been answered. Unawares 
The crown of conquest settled on thy brow ; 

While thy lone household desolately fares 
Lacking thy counsel and thy guidance now. 

But kneeling at the hour when thou didst kneel, 
(Thy gentle intercessions sorely missed) 

Pleading the same sure promises, we feel 

As if with thine our souls were keeping tryst. 

For thou art sheltered underneath the wing 
That shades our goings with unwearied care, 

And what are songs of praise the ransomed sing, 
But ripened fruitage from the vine of prayer? 

Oh, had a nation's tears bedewed thy pall — 

Fame, power, and wealth our heritage been made 

Through thy deservings — valueless were all 

To soothe our anguish — hadst thou never prayed I 
6* 



144 



XLIX. 

MY TWO DREAMS. 

In the quietude of midnight, when the fevered world 

lies dreaming, 
And the stars keep patient vigil o'er her passing lull 

of pain, 
Came a sudden flash of brightness through my hearts' 

dim cavern streaming, 
And the form I love so fondly met my longing sight 

again. 



Seemed we sitting all together, in the old delightful 

fashion. 
In a lofty lone pavilion, and beneath us moaned the 

sea, 
While I read aloud the record of the Hebrew children's 

passion, 
From the book of Daniel's visions, lying open on my 

knee. 



145 



Clanged the call to idol-worship — spake the martyrs 

bold denial, 
With the spiral-flaming furnace, and the despot-king 

in view — > 

When my father musing murmured, "Now within 

that tale of trial, 
I perceive far deeper meaning than as yet is plain to 

you." 

From my trance his comment roused me. I reviewed 
in fleet transition. 

How each tie of love was sundered — how our riven 
hearts had bled, 

While in agony we called him, — and at once by in- 
tuition. 

Knew, our prayers had won his presence — we were 
sitting by the dead. 

With the overwhelming gladness not one doubt or 

tremor wrestled — 
In the sun-burst of his coming could no coward mote 

appear — 
Into mine old safe refuge near his heart anew I 

nestled, 
And there asked him of the marvels he had learned in 

yonder sphere. 



146 



"Love, thy soul of late was mingling with the unde- 
filed Communion, 

Where Jehovah's softened splendors on the saved 
nations strike. 

Since our tears have drawn thee hither, in this mo- 
ment of re-union. 

Ere its memory fade, tell us, what that blissful 
Heaven is like?" 

Long he paused without replying, till at last the words 

fell slowly, 
" Men's ideas of Heaven are varied — tell me, daughter, 

what are thine ?" 
But his calm brow was illumined with intelligence 

so holy. 
That I felt how high his knowledge soared above all 

range of mine — 

Felt my soul could never fathom the infinitudes of 

Heaven, 
Dared he tell them. Then I questioned, " Were you 

very happy there?" 
And his answer, " very happy," with a smile of peace 

was given, 
Like a summer rainbow showing storms no longer 

load the air. 



147 



From his side I sprang up, shrieking, " You have fed 

on living manna," 
(And my frantic tones were coupled with the moaning 

of the sea), 
" You have walked with saints and angels — you have 

learned their sweet Hosanna, 
Then / cannot make you happy, and you will not stay 

with we." 

With the same bright smile uprising, from my longing 

sight he faded, 
And I wakened from my slumber, while the moaning 

of the gale. 
And the rain's incessant plashing, my own sense of 

sorrow aided 
Till night's grief and mine seemed blending in one sad 

continuous wail. 



Came the New Year ere I saw him next. Oh bitter 

was its coming ! 
Very harshly on our grieving jarred each merry peal 

of chimes. 
Gleeful shoutings, loving wishes, and the human hive's 

gay humming. 
Only pained u^ by their echo of our joy in former 

times. 



148 



We had spent the day in weeping, and at length, 

worn-out, I slumbered. 
Still, beside his chair now vacant, I was weeping in 

my dream. 
O'er our Future far outstretching, in a web of woes 

unnumbered, 
Whereon lay no gloss relieving sombre hue or rugged 

seam. 



When uplifting my wan eyelids, lo I my father was 

before me, 
From his form effulgence raying, soft as halo round a 

saint ; 
Room and heart alike grew luminous, while pityingly 

o'er me. 
Bent his face serene in happiness no pang of earth 

could taint. 

And the voice was half-reproachful as he whispered 
"Why this anguish?" 

To mine entrance into glory art thou yet unrecon- 
ciled ? 

Canst thou wish me in this wicked world, where love 
must ever languish ? 

Flow thy tears because I come not ? Oh, this is not 
like my child ?" 



149 



And again the lovely phantom into ether melted, 

smiling, 
Asa star melts into morning, and my happy dream 

was o'er, 
Rat the thoughts it stirred were pleasant, for awhile 

my grief beguiling. 
And rejoicing in my father's joy, that night I wept 

no more. 



150 



THANKSaiVING. 

When grief's first torrent-rush subsides, 
And on through banks of patience glides, 
While time's soft hand, in swathes of green 
Mantles the scar of what has been ; 

When common duties cease to bring 
With hourly summons, hourly sting. 
Why seems it worse, on festal days, 
To wear habiliments of praise? 

Are loved ones lodged beneath the mould ? 
Is the untended hearth-fire cold ? 
And dost thou sit and weep aJone, 
While homesteads gather in their own ? 

Oh, with thy mournful memories blend 
Memories of Christ, thy loving Friend, 
Whose care and kindness oft infuse 
In bitterest herbs, most wholesome dews. 



151 * 

Then bless Him for the power of prayer, 
Gfirding thy languid heart to bear — 
For heaven- born thoughts of peace that steal 
On harassed mourners when they kneel — 

For rills of love and mercy left 

Undried, in life's most lonely cleft — 

For blissful intervals of ease 

From torturing pain — G-ive thanks for these I 

And bless Him that no sudden blight 
Can reach the Granary of light, 
Where one by one our Lord receives, 
And safely stores His ripened sheaves. 

Which values most home's winning sounds ? 
He who has never crossed its bounds, — 
Or he whom long privation taught 
To prize its welcome as he ought ? 

'Tis thus, through sorrow and unrest 
(rod trains thy soul, with keener zest, 
And deeper, holier joy, to prize 
The glad Thanksgivinsf of the skies. 



•152 
LI. 

T H E B I R D . 

O'er green acclivities we took our way, 
One genial noon, in search of him we loved, 
Strolling since morning upon treeless heights, 
Where travelled breezes o)3en their rich stores 
Of briny attar, culled from myriad waves, 
And redolent of vigour. He was glad 
To inhale those healthful odours — to escape 
For a brief season from the sultry air 
Of city streets in summer, and to gaze 
On the blue concave bending to the Sea, 
Unchecked by lofty piles. 

Meeting at length. 
And pacing home together, soon he said 
" What think you happened in my walk to-day ? 
I saw, while sauntering near yon broken wall, 
A fearless robin, perching on a stone. 
That calmly eyed me, and with careful hand, 
I drew it, unresisting, to my side. 
The bird scarce fluttered, but its brilliant eyes. 
Half human in expression, durably sued 
For swift dismissal. Smoothing then awhile 



153 



The ruffled plumage, lined with ruddiest gold, 
And wondering greatly it should be so tame, 
With a few loving words, I let it go, 
And watched the dark wings fading up the sky, 
Pleasant it seemed, yet strange!" 

With a low sigh, 
-A bodeful murmur swelling at her heart, 
A wince of pain, my mother turned away ; 
While I, unlearned in the tales of eld, 
That hold such visits harbingers of death. 
Lifted my glances to the lovely eyes 
Beaming with kindness, saw the look of peace 
Dwelling on lip and brow, and only thought 
It is no marvel if to one so pure, 
And mild of aspect, gentle things should come. 

There were a few more days of calm delight, 
Spent in long rambles by the weedy shore. 
In dance and frolic with capricious waves, — 
Then separation came. The dreary vault 
Closed on our dear one's face, and we were left, 
Alone and sad, unweeting how he died. 
Had his stern struggle with the Sea effaced 
The bitterness of parting ? Did he feel 
The Everlasting Arms beneath his soul ? 
Or heard he, louder than the tempest's shriek, 
His wife's wild agony — his daughter's wail ? 
7 



154 



We souglit the graveyard where our treasure lay, 
In stricken silence, there to pray and weep, 
For we were quiet as some wounded doe, 
Met by keen arrow in its mirthful play, 
Stunned into stillness. 

By the grave we spied 
A small brown object moving, which the eye 
Blinded with weeping, barely could define. 
It was a robin ; and in passionate haste 
I sprang to seize it — Aye, the prize was mine — 
Thricfe-blessed guerdon ! that entailed the boon 
Of speedy summons from a darkened world ! 
The bird was beautiful, with vivid eyes 
Seeming to read my soul. I stroked the wings 
Caressingly awhile as he had done. 
Then with unclosing fingers, bade it fly. 
There was a moment's flutter — and it turned 
A long look on my mother and on me, 
But flew not heavenward. O'er the glittering 

eye 
Film slowly gathered — then it gasped — grew still ; 
The wings drooped lifeless, and my bird was dead. 
My bird was dead ! it had not sprung aloft. 
Like my dear father's, dwindling u|) the sky ! 
All hope of dying gone, I could but say 
" My bird is dead ! What may its death portend ?" 



165 



We buried it beside him, and lay down 

In desolation by the double grave. 

Then on my spirit suddenly there stole 

The meaning of the sign. His bird had come 

To call him heavenward. He too spread his wings 

Like the bright messenger, and rose on high 

In the free sunshine. 

But the other came 
On voiceless errand to assuage our woe. 
Grod sent this bird to teach us how he died. 
It trembled ere the soft wings folding fell 
With half- reluctant flutter in my hand : 
Thus had my father for a moment shrunk 
From the Death- Ocean yawning on his view. 
And as the robin, with appealing gaze, 
Looked a mute farewell unto her and me — 
80 had he given one thought of love and prayer 
To each beloved, ere, with closing eyes, 
Arms meekly folded, and unmurmuring soul, 
He " fell asleep." 



LII 

MOURNER'S LITANY. 

Saviour ! in Thy mercy hear us ; 

Pain and peril linger near us, 

In our hearts, with sickening pang, 

Lanceth Fear an adder-fang ; 

G-rief, like haunting ghost, defies 

All our skill to exorcise. 

When o'erwhelmed, we seek Thy side, 

Seems Thy favoring ear denied ; 

Yet for others we would plead, 

Who Thy succor likewise need. 

Hear us, Saviour, we beseech Thee, 
Let the cry of mourners reach Thee ! 

Hear us Lord, for many lying 

On the couch of pain and sighing — 

Parched with fever, all too weak 

For themselves Thy help to seek ; 

And for tearful watchers, who 

Life's recession sadly view. 

Oh, when earthly hope is fled, 

Jesus, draw Thou near the bed ; 

Let Thy bidding health recall. 

Or Thy presence Heaven forestall. 

Hear us. Saviour, we beseech Thee, 
Let the cry of mourners reach Thee. 



157 



Hear us for survivors, sinking 

Down unfathomed deeps, and thinking — 

" Can a Father, loving, wise. 

His beloved so chastise ? 

If we were indeed His own, 

Would He leave us quite alone ?" 

Jesus, Thou forsaken wert, 

In Thine hour of deadliest hurt: 

To bereaved hearts come nigh. 

Softly breathing, " It is I." 

Hear us. Saviour, we beseech Thee, 
Let the cry of mourners reach Thee. 

Hear us for the self-reliant, 

Proven in temptation pliant, 

In whose ear foul spirits shed 

Mutterings of despair or dread ; 

MufHed in a stole of doom. 

Garish light but mocks their gloom. 

Jesus, who his art didst foil. 

From the Spoiler rend the spoil ; 

Covering with Thy dintless shield, 

Baffling, till he quit the field. 

Hear us, Saviour, we beseech Thee, 
Let the cry of mourners reach Thee. 



158 

Some there are with burthens laded, 

Who must struggle on unaided, 

Choke their anguish back, and rush 

Forth in Life's unpitying crush : 

No dear voice their terror charms, 

Or the jostling crowd disarms. 

Jesus, listen to their plaint, 

By the wayside Thou wert faint — 

Let Thy consolations dwell 

In their souls — a living well. 

Hear us, Saviour, we beseech Thee, 
Let the cry of mourners reach Thee. 

In Thy home of joy and splendor, 

Still Thy love is true and tender ; 

Still, as when Thy life-drops fell 

On G-ethsemane's lone dell, 

Thy compassions do not fail, 

Though our faith and hope are frail. 

Cheer us, Lord, as Thou didst cheer 

Him, who, in remorse and fear, 

Turned to Thee his dying eyes, 

With a promised Paradise. 

Hear us. Saviour, we beseech Thee, 
Let the cry of mourners reach Thee. 



159 



LIII. 



RESUR^AM. 

As in dark furrow living seed 
Lies down to wait the term decreed, 
Ere its green blade from earth be freed, 
So now my father lies. 

Clods on the young germ roughly press, 
And gloom enwraps its loveliness, 
And for a time, the winter's stress 

All hope of life denies. 

Not unintended, nor in vain 
That long imprisoning, for the grain 
Wins through its burial wondrous gain — 
So shall my father rise. 

Not with the form of weakness, hid 
From weeping eyes 'neath fastened lid, 
By hirelings borne where kinsmen bid. 

Unconscious of our cries. 



160 

Not with his loving spirit framed 
In narrow niche, by sorrow claimed, 
And in close conflict often maimed ; 

Not thus shall he arise. 

But safe, untrammelled, pure and meet 

To pass at once, on pinion fleet. 

To his soul's home — his Saviour's feet, 

His dwelling in the skies I 

If o'er his grave such prospects smile, 
Should not their gladness reconcile 
Our hearts to leave him there awhile. 

In certain hope to rise ? 

For Christ is risen ! His garments white 
Left in the tomb, still lend it light ; 
Christ is arisen, and in His might, 

My father shall arise ! 



If) 



L'E N V I. 

SiLKNCE with one we love, how dear I 
On viewless bridge, but not of sighs, 
From heart to heart, from eyes to eyes, 

Feeling and thought find pathway clear. 

Thus, love, though " song in silence" close, 
"We look not from the past away, 
As strangers turn from tombed clay. 

Forgotten in its lone repose. 

Still to thy soul our souls are wed. 
And selfish murmurs may not be 
Linked in that union. — Snakes will flee 

From grassy leas where sheep are fed. 

And though thy requiem boast no rhymes, 
Like changeful bells in abbeys hung, 
Whose gay carillon, deftly rung, 

The wanderer's soul in music limes : 



162 

Yet unto friends who loved thee well, 
Its simple words may sometimes bring 

Old memories that thy name enring, 
Or of thy gentle goodness tell. 

Therefore with pauper-hand I gave 

These weeds of song. dearest, best ! 
Love is their sole, sweet claim to rest, 

And wither on thy lowly grave. 



163 



NOTES 



Note 1. 
No. Vllf. Page 35. 

' Tlie coping' moves not, by its Chief unbidden," &c. 

It is not uncommon, among desert tribes, for the Sheikh to be 
the only person by whose authority particular wells can be 
opened ; and sometimes he alone knows where to find them. 

Note 2. 
No. X. Page 40. 

''And iti depai-ting, had Ihy saintly boon 
Been the brave cloak of courage thou didst wear," &c. 

In allusion to the legends of St. Martin of Tours, and St. Thomas 
of Canterbury (Thomas a Becket), the former of whom is said to 
have divided his cloak with one beggar ; the latter, to have flung 
his furred mantle to another, with the words, " 'I'hou hast more 
need of it than I." 

Note 3. 
No. XII. Page 43. 

"I have heard of ancient vases,'' &c. 

One of the most wonderful arts of the ancient orientals was to 
mould d, wine-cup of dehcate porcelain so cunningly, that when 
empty, it would appear pure and plain, but if filled with wine, 
■ would be adorned with brilliant pictures, invisible at other times. 



\M 

Note 4. 
No. XV. Page 52. 

" Not ours the, peace of stones," kc. 

" Let US beware that our rest become not the rest of stones." 

Jno. Euskin. 

Note 5. 
No. XXII. Page 73. 

" It was a place of burial then," &c. 
The plot of ground now known as St. John's Park, was used 
for interments during the prevalence of the yellow fever in New 
York. 

Note 6 
No. XXV. Page 81. 

" A.s from that silent Cumbrian lake," &c. 
Sir Walter Scott speaks, in the notes to Rokeby, of a small 
Lake or Tarn among the mountains of Cumberland, so shadowed 
over by rocks and brushwood, that it reflects stars, even at noon. 

Note 7. 
No. XXXIV. Page 105. 

"Thou may'sl learn the Xoble Lesson, and the rude Waldensian lays." 
The Waldensian Churches possess a compend of their faith, 
called the Noble Lesson, compiled as far back as the Eleventh 
century, if not earlier. Many of their hymns are also of great 
antiquity, though unpolished. For the incidents referred to in 
this poem, see Blair's "History of the Waldenses." 

Note 8. 
No. XXXV. Page 107. 

" Strong are the angels, pure and strong," &c. 

"The union of power with purity constitutes all that we mor- 
tals can imagine of angelic perfection." —Mad. de Stael. 



165 

Note 9. 
No XXX YI. Page 110. 

" 'Tis said the Genoese," &c. 
There is a superstition common in the neighborhood of Grenoa, 
probably of Moorish origin, that fireflies are the souls of departed 
relations. Hence the windows are closed, even on sultry nights, 
to exclude them. 

Note 10. 
No. XXXVI. Page 110. 

" Though on my brow or wrist 
A fadeless brand reveal," &c. 

In the tradition of Lord Ly ttleton's visit to his sister after death, 
the final test which convinced her of his presence, is said to have 
left a mark on her wrist, visible to her dying day. 

Note 11. 
No. XXXVII. Page 113. 

"They who have felt the forked fire," &c. 

" It is said of Christ that He shall sit as a Refiner and Purifier 
of sils^er. — Malachi iii. 3. We would like well enough to come 
and warm ourselves by this Refiner's fire, but the business depends 
on our being thrown into it." — Thomas Adams, 1630. 

Note 12. 
No XXXVIII. Page 116. 

"Another Perseus, hurrying to unlock," &c. 
The Greeks believed that the adventure of Perseus and Andro- 
meda took place at Jaffa ; and St. Jerome says that in his time 
the rock and ring to which Andromeda was bound were pointed 
out there. 



166 



Note 13. 
No. XXXVIII. Page 116. 

"There, too, the Lion-hearted King," &c. 

When Richard I. of England was compelled to give up all hope 
of retaking Jerusalem, he set sail with a small retinue for Jaffa, 
and on arriving, found the gates in the hands of the Saracens, and 
the Christians selling their lives dearly. On this, he sprang on 
shore, with shield and battle-axe, retook the castle, slew the 
Saracens within the walls, and drove those without back to their 
camp. Saladdin, being told that the King of England had re- 
taken the town, and seeing him on foot, sent him a horse of great 
value, charging the messenger to say that "such a man ought 
not to remain on foot in so great danger." A.D. 1192. 

Note 14. 
No. XXXVIII. Page 116. 

"There knelt St. Louis when liis iiioiher died." 

At Jaffa, Louis IX. of Prance received tidings of his mother's 
death. He fell on his knees, saying, " I thank thee, my God I 
for having spared Madame, my dear mother, to me so long as it 
pleased thee, and for having now, in thy good pleasure, taken her 
to thyself. I loved her, it is true, above all creatures in the world, 
but since Thou hast taken her from me, blessed be Thy name to 
all eternity." 

Note 15. 
No. XXXVIII. Page 116. 

" There haughty Walter de Brienne," &c. 

Walter de Brienne, Lord of Jaffa, was taken prisoner by the 
Corasmins, and hung on a cross by the arms. They then showed 



167 



him to the garrison with a threat that he should hang there till 
they surrendered. Raising his voice, in spite of his agony, he 
commanded them to hold out to the last. 

Note 16. 
No. XXXVIII. Page 116. 

" And there the gentle Godfrey dying lay," &c. 

Godfrey, of Boulogne, first Christian King of Jerusalem, is said 
to have died at Jaffa, the walls of which he had rebuilt. 

Note 17. 
No. XXXVIII. Page 116. 

" Then tearful shouts the tidings hailed," &e. 

It was a lovely morning when the first Crusaders drew near 
Jerusalem. Their enthusiasm was unbounded. '• All," says an 
eye-witness, "had much ado to manage so great a gladness." 

Note 18. 
No. XXXVIII. Page 117. 

" Where gray-haired mourners wail for Israel's woes," &c. 

It is still customary for the elders of the Jews residing at Jeru- 
salem to repair to certain parts of the ruined walls, and there 
lament over the desolation of their city. 

Note 19. 
No. XLII. Page 125. 

" Where, said the Teacher to a heathen Sage," &c. 
"Do you know whither the spirit goes after death?" 
Ans. — " Do you think, that if we knew, we would not go after 

it, and bring it back?'' — Missionary Enquiries among the Gonds 

OF India. 



168 

Note 20. 
No. XLTV. Page 131. 

"Shall not Thy hand my spirit hold," &c. 
" My Sheep," sa3''s the Saviour, " shall never perish, neither shall 
anj' man pluck them out of my liand " — (Johnx. 27, 28.1 The 
Scriptures have no rhetorical fear of mixing metaphors. It is as 
if the warrior's mailed palm had closed upon something that he 
highly prized.— Extracted from a MSS. Sermon by Rev. W. R. 
Williams, D.D. 

Note 21. 
No. XLVI. Page 138. 

" Let not thy weeping hinder toil," &c. 

" Weeping must not hinder sowing." — Matthew Henry. 



^1 












%<^^ 
.^'>'\ 














• i»o 











•^-..^^ 






















— 'n^ - ♦ • 























\*^^\/ %*^V \'*?t^-\ 




"■^.^A" 




%'f 



.^'•\ 



, # \ '-SK*' ^-s?'*^. '^m: .^^% '- 







